


A Thousand Points of Light

by fhsa_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Adult Content, Drama, Episode Related, Established Relationship, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-20
Updated: 2006-06-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 15:57:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 121,029
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12797745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhsa_archivist/pseuds/fhsa_archivist
Summary: A continuation of The Ties That Bind, (which went AU after "The Amazing Malini"). In this installment, Skinner and Krycek renew their relationship after Alex's stint in Forj Sidi Toui, and live through the events of the series up to William Mulder Scully's birth, including encounters with Gibson Praise, Jeremiah Smith, and the Lone Gunmen.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Haven, the archivist: This story was originally archived at [Fandom Haven Story Archive (FHSA)](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Fandom_Haven_Story_Archive), was scheduled to shut down at the end of 2016. To preserve the archive, I began working with the OTW to transfer the stories to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2017. If you are this creator and the work hasn't transferred to your AO3 account, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Fandom Haven Story Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/fhsa/profile).

A THOUSAND POINTS OF LIGHT

by 

D. W. Chong

 

#

CHAPTER ONE

#

"I have seen no more evident monstrosity and miracle in the world than myself." Montaigne,

*Essays* 

#

Penal colony, Forj Sidi Toui, Tunisia

Wednesday, May 23rd, 2001

#

 

Alex Krycek's brain was as numb as his ass, and for pretty much the same reason. But he was not so numb that he didn't notice the lecherous cat-calls and crude come-ons of his fellow inmates advancing up the corridor like a tidal wave, announcing the approach of fresh blood. 

 

It reminded him of his own reception into the bowels of the prison. First, there had been his abduction right off the city streets. Then the hours long ride in the back of a panel van. He had been ushered into the Commandant's office for a quick orientation speech, a variation on the standard 'Foreign Legion' screed that began by informing him that someone had paid them a great deal of money to apprehend him, and ended with the promise that his life as he had known it was over, with a citation of the evil deed that had landed him there tossed in somewhere in between. The last thing the Commandant assured him, while he was shuffling out to be 'processed,' was that he would have a long time to contemplate the error of his ways.

 

His 'escorts' had hustled him through the building, making three right turns before descending a broad flight of stairs that took them to the prisoner's level of the facility, demarked by the second steel door he'd passed through, (the first had been the door separating the outside world from the prison's courtyard). 

 

Once securely locked inside, they walked four steps to a room that served as both the quartermaster's supply room, with its rows of prison whites and luxuries, like cigarettes and candy, and a storage locker for the prisoner's personal effects. 

 

The man behind the counter invited Alex to strip or be stripped. Alex chose the path of least resistence. Everything he took off --including his prosthetic arm-- was bagged, tagged, and tucked into a large, brown paper bag which was sealed with a self-adhesive label sporting his prisoner ID number and unceremoniously shoved into the nearest opening on the appropriate shelf. 

 

Alex's escorts roughly searched his body cavities while the man behind the counter shuffled along the rows of clothing, picking out items seemingly at random. He returned, setting a neatly folded bundle of prison-wear: cloth slippers and white homespun shirt and pants, onto the counter wordlessly. 

 

Alex started to pick up the first item, in order to put it on, but the guards grunted their displeasure and waved their billy clubs threateningly. The quartermaster smiled. "You don't dress here. Take the bundle and follow them." He made a dismissive gesture. The guards made a grab for him, and Alex hurriedly scraped the counter clean as they hauled him back to the corridor. 

 

They marched him around another series of turns then stopped at what looked like an unfinished corridor, with exposed ceiling pipes, rough concrete walls, and a bricked up back wall. One of the guards pointed to a bench with his club. Alex laid his bundle on the bench, looked at the guards, then took a few tentative steps towards the end of the corridor. His bare feet landed on metal, and he looked down. There was no light at this end of the corridor, but he could still make out the grid. The floor was wet underneath the grid, and it was open. A few drops of tepid water pittered onto his shoulder, startling him, and he winced away from them before his brain put all the pieces together. He was in the shower room. He looked around for the taps, found one, and turned it on.

The water, sputtered out of the end of a pipe in a cold, dribbly cascade, rather than a hot pressurized spray, but Alex didn't yelp. He didn't know many prisons outside the U.S. that provided their inmates with hot water. 

 

He scrubbed himself down with his hands, then shut the tap off, and one of the guards motioned him back towards them. The second guard was now holding an industrial sized pump dispenser with nozzle. It was, Alex realized, a canister of de-lousing solution. Alex groaned, but he knew this routine. He planted himself in front of the guard with feet spread and arms raised and the man enthusiastically doused him with foul smelling solution, which Alex scrubbed into his skin and hair. Then he stood there while one of the guards consulted his watch. When the necessary amount of time had passed, they gestured him back to the shower. 

 

Alex backed onto the floor grating, and rinsed himself off. The guard who had sprayed him held out a nubby bit of cloth, and Alex toweled dry and dressed. Once he was fully clothed, his guards motioned him further into the right-angled warren of dun-colored bricks. They halted once more, this time at a half open Dutch door, where an anonymous arm thrust a battered, pint-sized tin cup towards him. The stench of rancid oil curled off the arm, making Alex's nose twitch, but, before he inhaled enough of the odor to gag, he reflexively grabbed the cup and the guards pushed him onwards.

 

They turned left into the main access corridor, where he caught a whiff of soap and clean clothes and heard the rumbling thunder of washing machines and dryers issuing from the opposite hallway. The odors of food and laundry mixed as they proceeded past the first intersection, to a blank wall, which formed a T-section. They pivoted right, and one of the guards stepped forward to unlock and slide open the security door of steel bars, then they stepped through. 

 

Immediately, the stench of too many men in too tight quarters without access to daily showers, a daily change of clothes, or flush toilets assaulted Alex's nose.

 

The cell corridors were divided by steel framed steel bars into a central access aisle and two flanking holding areas. Each holding area was partitioned into cells large enough to house twenty odd inmates by interior walls of dun-colored brick buttressed by five feet of solid concrete.

 

They were not so far below ground that Alex couldn't feel the heat of the blazing Tunisian sun radiating through the bricks, but there were no windows. The only light came from the string of caged bulbs running down the very center of the corridor's fifteen foot high ceiling. The lights were the only bread crumbs one could follow in the warren, so he kept glancing up as they turned right again and again, in a Greek key pattern. Finally, they stopped at the third cell on the right.

 

There was a fourth cell after that, then the corridor was capped by a cell that spanned the center aisle, but did not have any 'blind spots' for mischief to be hatched out of the sight of the guards. The doors to the flanking cells were wide enough to meet in the middle of the aisle if they were both opened at once, and they opened in such a way that the prisoners would be trapped on the dead-end side of the corridor if the doors were pulled open and chained, or otherwise held together. Alex supposed this was for security purposes in case of a general breakout, not that he knew for certain, or cared one way or the other. 

 

Being one-armed and pretty, and a foreigner, at that, he had been considered easy prey. Six very stupid men had tried to win, bully, or force him into submission his first night. He had ignored, declined, threatened, beaten, and finally killed one assailant in a seemingly endless night of escalating violence, besting all comers. Temporarily. 

 

If prison life had taught these men anything, it was patience. Alex had been fresh, strong, and well fed when he'd entered the cell, but he had no allies, no influence, no money, no goods, and no one on the outside who could supply him with any. After a few months of watching his back every minute of every day, lack of sleep, inactivity, and bad food had ripened him for the picking. It hadn't hurt that his lustful cell mates had wised up in the interim and had joined forces, either.

 

Eleven men had jumped him that fateful night. Two had ended up taking a dirt nap for their trouble. The remaining nine had pummeled Alex into submission and taken their pleasure from his bruised and restrained flesh, raping him for four hours straight. 

 

With an ass as bloody as his battered mouth, it had been three days before Alex had had the strength to claim his share of the food rations, poor as they were. Mainly because there was only room at the bars for half the men in the cell at a time, and he just wasn't strong enough to get or retain his place at the bars. 

 

Two times a day two trustees pushed a cart laded with a forty-five gallon steel kettle up and down the middle of the aisle between the holding cells, while two other trustees, one to a side, dipped and poured one ladleful of cooling, watery gruel into each extended tin cup pushed through the bars. The meal cart made one trip up the aisle and one trip back, and it didn't matter to the trustees if they filled new cups or old. Neither did they stick around to ensure that the ones who got the food kept it. 

 

One cup of gruel for breakfast, and one cup of gruel with a farl of day old bread for supper. Being one handed, Alex had a hard time hanging onto his meals. If it wasn't knocked out of his hand deliberately, just to piss him off, someone was stealing his bread. Because the trustees had to lay the bread in his cup instead of letting him grab it with his other hand, like the other prisoners, he had taken to grabbing the bread with his mouth. 

 

Because the quality of the bread, and the struggle he underwent to keep it, varied from day to day, this sometimes resulted in his biting very dry bread so hard it crumbled and fell to the floor in pieces, while other times, in trying to gain a purchase on the bread, he pushed it so far into his cup the gruel oozed over the brim like an over-filled bath tub. Sometimes his bread was snatched out of his teeth. Other times he was 'bumped' hard enough to spill his soup. 

 

Between malice and mishap and a subsistence diet, the end result was hunger and fatigue. Plus, once his prison cherry had been popped, his horizontal dance card filled up pretty fast. Which is why it had taken him three weeks to gather enough strength to exact his revenge. Three weeks of taking it up the ass without a fight lulled his abusers into carelessness. 

 

That fateful night he had waited for them to fall asleep, then, starting with the three most sadistic rapists, he had tiptoed among the sleeping men expediently stepping on, and snapping, their necks. He'd have killed all nine of his tormentors, but the fifth victim's innocent neighbor had awakened and cried out in alarm, prematurely ending his crime spree. That was the difficulty in carrying out a mass assassination when there was barely enough room on the dirt floor for the all men in the cell to stretch out. It was like trying to tiptoe unseen through a colony of squabbling birds during nesting season.

 

After that, the rapists with influence recruited other, up-till-now indifferent cell mates to watch Alex day and night. They watched him piss, they watched him eat, they watched him do what exercises his fatigue and limited resources allowed in order to keep himself in the best physical condition he could manage. They watched while two or three fellow prisoners held him down so still more could rape him and they didn't even bother masturbating while they watched, because any one of them could shoot a wad in him any time they wanted. All it took was a little negotiation. 

 

Alex had never felt so alone in his entire life. 

 

Which is why Alex mouthed a silent prayer to the gods who had kept him alive this long that the newbie being heckled by the female-deprived prisoners crowding the bars was escorted to --and deposited in-- his cell, and that said newbie would be too weak, or too scared to fight back, and thus supplant Alex as the cell's resident whore. If he had to cow the newbie himself, even help hold him down, Alex was prepared to do it. Better the newbie than him. 

 

Since the odds of his getting his wish were slim to none, and Alex was not keen on watching his hopes being dashed, he hung back and held his breath as the raucous jeers rolled up the aisle, just as they had the day of his incarceration, now eight months gone. 

 

Not that he had ever harbored any illusions of reprieve or escape after the first assessment of his situation. Realizing that he could neither dig, nor bribe his way out, Alex's aspirations ran no higher than to make his circumstances as bearable as possible. Which was why he prayed not for release but respite. //Put him in here, put him in here, put him in here,// Alex silently prayed.

 

His prayer seemed to work. The inmates' clamor went no farther up the corridor than his cell. There were only two options, now: his cell, or the cell across the aisle. Alex held his breath and clenched his eyes shut, not daring to watch. 

 

The guards, for their part, seemed perfectly content to keep the prisoners in suspense forever, long enough for even the most raucous of the men to take the hint and quiet down. 

 

That's when Alex heard The Voice. 

 

"Your release has been arranged." 

 

It took a moment for Alex to realize that The Voice had spoken English, that it was female, and that he recognized it. It was only then that the impact of the words hit him. He drifted towards the bars in a daze as the other men, realizing that the foreign woman had to be addressing the only foreigner in their cell, mercifully parted. 

 

Alex found himself with an unobstructed view of his savior. "Marita Covarrubias. The last time I saw you, I left you for dead," he said dully. 

 

Her expression sharpened in remembrance. "Alex, if it were strictly up to me, I'd leave *you* here to rot, too," she retorted.

 

Thankfully, it wasn't up to her. As per usual, someone else was calling the shots, and the shot called today was not to stir the hope of freedom in his breast and then crush it like a used cigarette, for one of the guards stepped forward with a ring of iron keys, opened the cell door, and beckoned him out. 

 

Alex tottered into the safety of the corridor without a backward glance. The guards formed up around them and escorted them in a now familiar route to the dark, dead-end bathing niche. The guards ordered him to strip and, as he had done once a week throughout his stay, he obeyed instantly, without any hint of modesty, despite Marita's continued presence and attention. He didn't even care if she mistook the sources of the rust-brown stains spotting the back of his dingy white pants. 

 

Marita, being Marita, did not do the decent thing and turn away. She and Alex had carnal knowledge of each other, so false modesty seemed a waste of time and effort to her. 

 

She was slightly disgusted when a guard wielding an exterminator's pump can, unceremoniously sprayed Alex with some smelly solution that black-flashed odious speckles all over her haute couture dress suit.

 

Alex scrubbed the solution into his skin, especially any area covered with hair, then he automatically stepped onto the metal grate and waited for permission to rinse off the solution and the now dead critters it had killed on contact with the spastic dribble of water spurting from an overhead pipe.

 

Marita was, perhaps, hoping that keeping a disapproving scowl firmly affixed to her face while watching Alex sluice off a week's worth of grime from his wasted body would somehow humiliate him. It didn't. In fact, it wasn't until the cold water hit him that Alex recovered his wits enough to wonder --aloud-- who had sent her. 

 

Her answer: "Morley," was hardly unexpected, since the so-called "Morley," A.K.A. C. G. B. Spender, was the one who had arranged his incarceration in the first place. Who else would have known to look for him here? 

 

//Dancing for the puppet master again,// Alex thought distastefully. Even the basest of men had a personal concept of dignity. Alex's pride and principals demanded that he spurn Spender's offer of salvation and march back to his cell to suffer his fate like a man. Thoughts of defying Spender's will swelled his chest --then his guts tautened like a bowstring on a windlass, as the infinitely more powerful need for freedom at any cost pummeled his principals to oblivion while his inner survivor rat pragmatically told his ego not to be a complete and total ass. The time to spit in Spender's eye was *after* he'd escaped this Hell hole, and not a second before.

 

While Alex fought to maintain his composure, Marita assessed his physical condition. After eight months of physical inactivity and malnutrition, he didn't look strong enough to strangle a new-born kitten. She didn't think he would be able to carry out whatever scheme the Old Man wanted him for, but that wasn't her concern. Getting Alex back to the Old Man, was.

 

Alex grinned at her from under the spray of water, which only served to deepen her frown. Alex, she was firmly convinced, did not possess an ounce of shame or a shred of decorum. Had she known his seeming leer was only the bitter amusement of a man berating himself for a total lack of intestinal fortitude, she might have commiserated with him. Survival had not allowed either of them to stand on principals. 

 

When Alex stepped out of the spray, a plain brown sack of personal affects, rather than a nubby towel and another set of prison whites, was thrust towards him. He opened it and recognized the things he'd had on him the day he'd arrived: white t-shirt, briefs, and socks; black leather jacket; blue jeans; brown Doc Martens; a syphon-like hose with bulb pump; watch, wallet, and passport --the latter of which Marita quickly confiscated --she knew him too well --and his state of the art, forty thousand dollar, myoelectric prosthetic, complete with wristwatch and camouflaging black glove. 

 

He was actually surprised to see the arm. Perhaps the inscrutability of its functions had kept it safely amongst his effects. He smiled. Saved by the 'magic' of high maintenance --and possibly by the fact that, unactivated, it looked like an old-style cosmetic arm, i.e. one of no practical use in a harsh world --except maybe as a paperweight. 

 

Alex had no doubt that, had he worn the more recognizable, 'three-hook' prosthetic, his inventory of personal possessions would have been less one arm. If, in fact, he could have held onto it that long. He would have probably been mugged for it the first time he ventured into the seedier quarter of the city. 

 

While had hated losing his real arm, and he usually complained bitterly about how much he hated having to rely on the prosthesis, he had never been happier to see it.

 

Bending down to hold the prosthetic between his thighs, he slipped his unfortunately atrophied stump into the socket, grabbed the syphon hose, and inserted the needle-like end into what looked like a blemish on the inner arm side of the socket end of the prosthetic. Then he twisted the bulb control and squeezed the bulb repeatedly, inflating the jelly-like socket caressing his stump to a perfectly snug, and amazingly secure, form fit. 

 

Alex pulled the hose out, which made a soft 'pfisst!' before the air lock engaged, relaxed his knees, and straightened. Immediately, the carefully balanced weight of the prosthetic released the tension in the muscles of his shoulders and spine. It had become a daily struggle to keep his head upright, back straight, and shoulders level after eight months without the prosthetic's aid. 

 

He'd found himself having to consciously untilt his head and lower his lighter shoulder more and more frequently, especially at the end of the day. He tried flexing his prosthetic hand. The movement was reluctant, but the batteries were still working. Relief washed over him in a palpable wave, improving his already elated mood. He couldn't keep a grin off his face. With his 'arm' restored, he felt far less helpless, more whole.

 

He finished dressing. Clothing that had been form-fitting when he had entered the prison, now hung like sacks on his pared down frame, forcing him to pin his pants up with his prosthetic hand. 

 

He checked his wallet. There were enough dinar to buy a meal and a belt, but not much else. He tucked the wallet into the back pocket of his jeans, put on his other black glove with the aid of his teeth, and he was done. 

 

The guards took note of that fact, and immediately headed out, wending their way through the labyrinth of corridors until they emerged at the front court, which was shielded from the outside world by an ornate but impressively massive, black wrought iron gate. Beyond the gate, a white limo awaited.

 

Marita waited imperiously for the guards to unlock and roll the gate aside. Then she was striding to the car as if she couldn't put the place behind her fast enough. The driver leapt out of the cab to open the door for her, but 'ladies first' was not an option here. She turned to look at Alex expectantly. 

 

Alex took a deep breath and stepped away from the dun colored building that had housed him for so long, stumbling blindly for the refuge of the waiting car. He blamed his tears on the fierce desert sun. Eight months in semi-darkness had left him as light blind as a freshly unearthed mole. 

 

Blinking furiously, he was able to make out his complexion. Once a golden tan, he now had the color of unbleached linen. //Oh, well, better that than fish belly white,// he thought.

 

He groped for the car's egress and ducked into the tinted glass interior, scooting down the bench seat to give Marita room to join him. She took a seat opposite him, instead, the better to harangue the driver with an impatient knock on the privacy panel. The driver shut the passenger door and scrambled behind the wheel. In seconds the engine was purring, and the prison was shrinking from view. 

 

Alex didn't ask where they were headed. As long as it was away from Forj Sidi Toui he was content, although.... "Can we stop and get something to eat? And a belt. I need to buy a belt. Hey, is there anything to drink in this crate?"

 

"No," Marita said with all-purpose efficiency. 

 

Alex shrugged. At least the car had air conditioning. A few more minutes of that, and he wouldn't really need a drink, and until they got where they were going, he wouldn't really need a belt, either. Of course, he could do with a bite to eat. "How about a candy bar? Gum? Mints?"

 

Marita sighed and dug into her purse for a roll of breath mints which she surrendered to Alex. "Aren't you at all curious about why the Old Man sent for you?"

 

"No," Alex said honestly as he popped two of the mints into his mouth and rolled the little explosions of sweetness over his sugar starved palate. It was enough that he was free. The rest could wait until after he'd had a decent meal and a good night's sleep. Especially since he was pretty sure he wouldn't like what he heard. Why ruin a perfectly good mood with bad news?

 

His blunt but obvious sincerity blind-sided Marita, and she remained silent the rest of the two and a half hour drive to their hotel in Tunis. It was one of those white-washed relics from World War II, genteelly crumbling under the harsh weather. And, like many establishments of a foreign ilk, without elevators. 

 

Alex unhappily wheezed up the last of the three flights of stairs that led to their room. He'd known that his poor living conditions had debilitated him, but he hadn't realized to what extent. He decided the fruit basket waiting on the foyer table was ample reward for his efforts. He staggered to it, diving into the contents like a six-year-old attacking a Christmas stocking. 

 

Before he could sink to his knees in gluttonous bliss, Marita grabb ed his arm and hauled him towards the bathroom. "You look like hell."

 

Alex barked a laugh around two cheeks stuffed chipmunk-style with dates. "It would only be fitting, though I'll wager I still look better than you did back in Fort Marlene. I swear, I thought you were a goner, for sure."

 

"...So did I," she admitted, as she stopped to open the door.

 

Alex swallowed manfully. "And yet, here we both are, playing toady to Old Smoky yet again. You'd think we'd learn. He's screwed the two of us over so often we neither of us know whether to bend over or salute."

 

"'Learning' would have only gotten us killed --or worse."

 

"Can't be anything worse than what he's already put us through."

 

"There's *always* something worse," Marita corrected.

 

"...Yeah, I guess there is, at that," Alex conceded as visions of human bug-incubators flashed through his mind. "And I'll tell you what: I sure as Hell didn't get out of that hole just to die. As much as jumping through *his* hoops rankles, it does still beat the alternatives." 

 

"Glad to hear it."

 

"Just barely," Alex added.

 

Marita rolled her eyes. "You stink like rancid horse liniment. And you need a shave. And a haircut. Take a bath. I'll call room service and arrange for a barber to come up."

 

"And food. Hot food. Hot solid food --no soup. I want real, solid, hot food."

 

"And hot food," she promised. Then she firmly shut the door.

 

Alex glanced around. There was a suit hanging on a hangar over a hook on the back of the door. Fresh underclothes were folded neatly on the vanity, along with a dop kit thats contents were arrayed neatly on the counter in front of it. 

 

There was a new bar of soap, a pumice stone and manicure set --he snorted at that-- real shampoo and conditioner, deodorant, and men's cologne -- Aramis-- a toothbrush, toothpaste, floss, and mouth wash, hair brush, comb, and an electric shaver. And, to top off this surfeit of princely treasures, real Egyptian cotton towels. Tons of them. Washcloths by the dozen, and bath towels laid over a towel warmer. And a room heater, which he turned on, and golden colored taps in a sumptuous marble tub. And a back brush. 

 

He rubbed his week old stubble and surveyed himself in the basin mirror. "Alex, Old Son, Marita was right: you look like shit." //But alive,// he thought in answer to his own assessment. Alive and tired and achy and crusty and grimy and... "I think I will have that bath." He opened up the taps and let the steam of real hot water turn the room into a sauna. Yep, a long, luxurious soak in a hot bath was just what the doctor ordered. He stripped as quickly as he could and sank into the tub with a contented sigh.

 

The bath was glorious. His benefactor was not. The more he thought about it, the less he liked being in the Smoker's debt. The less he liked his situation, the more escape plans, running the gamut from the ludicrous to the down right suicidal, flitted through his head. 

 

He emerged from the bathroom three hours later, clothed, perfumed, and limp with the combination of muscle relaxing hot water, steam, heat, and the effort it took to dress himself on an empty stomach. 

 

His suit hung on him, but Marita, ever-efficient, had a tailor ready. The tailor took Alex's measurements, then had Alex step out of the suit so he could make his alterations on the spot. In the meantime, the also waiting barber gave Alex a shave and haircut, and, at Marita's urging, a manicure. 

 

At that point, the food arrived, and Alex and Marita adjourned to the balcony, where lunch was served: grilled fish on a bed of couscous with a Greek salad on the side. Substantial, but light, so as not to tax Alex's digestion after eight months on gruel and bread. 

 

Alex dug in, but the long interval without his prosthetic made for a dining nightmare. He kept losing his flatware. Forks and spoons flipped over the railing, skittered across the floor, landed on his dinner companion's lap and chest. He even managed to land his salad fork in her water goblet.

 

He crushed his own water goblet, spilled the salad dressing, scattered couscous like confetti, and generally managed to keep the hotel staff hopping to fix, retrieve, repair, and replace things, not to mention apologize to unfortunate passers-by. Still, Alex persisted, and Marita let him. They both understood why he needed to keep using the prosthetic when he had a perfectly serviceable hand with which to eat.

 

Afterwards, despite its being light out, she led him to his bedroom. "We have a late flight out. Why don't you get some rest till then?"

 

Alex nodded amiably. "Where are we going?" he ventured to ask.

 

"D.C."

 

The magic words. Alex ditched any idle notions of stealing his passport and going on the lam. Time enough to stiff the Smoker after he was safely back on home soil --a free ride was the least the bastard owed him. He shut the door --and locked it-- and wondered how he was ever going to sleep when all he could think about was getting home --and Walter. 

 

For the first time in months, thoughts of the Assistant Director sprang unbiddened into his mind. He didn't wonder that he hadn't thought about his erstwhile lover for so long. Alex Krycek was not a man given to mentally torturing himself with things he couldn't have. The fact that he couldn't stop thinking about Walter now actually irked his more practical sensibilities. 

 

What Alex couldn't help recalling was that he was supposed to have met Skinner at his lover's remote, Virginia hills retreat for the Christmas to New Year's holiday. Alex had been in prison several months, by then, however, and he had had no way to send his apologies. He knew he still wanted Skinner. His body told him that. But Skinner was very particular about things like protocol and etiquette, and his interest in Alex might have waned after being stood up for so long without a word of explanation. 

 

//He must have had plenty of time to come to his senses by now,// Alex thought. Frankly, as far as Alex was concerned, the very fact that Skinner had wanted him in the first place was a fluke. Alex plopped onto the bed with a groan, thoughts of Walter and his honest to God log cabin dancing in his head. 

 

They had taken an impromptu summer vacation --well, it was spur of the moment for him, for Skinner it had been a carefully orchestrated get-away that took advantage of yet another of Mulder's close calls. (Walter only felt safe leaving the Bureau when Mulder was incapacitated.) 

 

So, while Mulder was occupied recuperating from his latest escapade, he and Walter had snuck off to the two story fortress Walter laughingly called his 'rustic get-away cabin,' which was tucked in some back water hollow of Virginia without the modern conveniences of electricity, gas, or running water. It did have more than its fair share of mosquitoes, though, as Alex recalled. 

 

They had recreated for a week without a care, entertaining themselves with marathon sex sessions interspersed with interminable fishing expeditions. (Well, *Skinner* had fished.) Not that Alex had turned up his nose at the feast of fresh trout Skinner had twice managed to forage from the stream that marked the west border of his property. Alex Krycek never sneered at a free meal. It was Skinner's method of procuring said dinner that he balked at. There was just no percentage in standing hip deep in cold water flicking an artificial fly at indifferent fish. The *only* way Alex Krycek 'fished' was with a net.

 

But, if the art of angling held no appeal, watching *Walter* angle was another matter altogether.

 

Once, Alex had deliberately placed himself on the bank of the stream in which Walter was angling, in a nice sunny patch directly in Walter's line of sight. He had made a show of stripping off his clothes, sitting down with knees spread wide, and stroking himself to completion. His cum had arced up and into the water, attracting a curious fish, who breached to suck at the stuff before the current dispersed and carried it away. 

 

Alex had laughed at that. Walter had been fishing for hours and had only mosquito bites to show for it. He suggested to Walter that he soak his lures in spunk if he wanted to catch something, and Walter, who had frozen in place, entranced, to watch Alex's performance, had shaken himself like a big old grizzly, waded ashore, tossed aside his rod and reel, clambered out of his waders, flipped Alex onto his stomach with his beefy paws and plowed into him with the urgency of a rutting stag. Then he'd cuddled Alex in his arms, stroking and teasing him with stray blades of grass, till the sun tipped down the sky and they had dressed and gone home to a dinner of tinned corned beef and fried potatoes.

 

Alex smiled and closed his eyes, the better to revel in the images of rolling around on the ground, the cabin floor, the dining room table, and the king size bed in various states of undress while assaulting Walter with lips and teeth and tongue --now *that* was a sport Alex could get enthused about!

 

The next thing Alex was aware of was Marita knocking on his door.

 

He was about to curse her when he noticed that the room was dark. He bolted up and checked his watch: nine o'clock. Five hours since he'd gone to bed. Marita yelled at him through the door. "I'm up!" he yelled back. He padded to the door and opened it. "I'm up," he said again, to her face this time.

 

"I was about to call security," she said. "You sleep like the dead." He just grunted. "Supper's ready."

 

They ate indoors, this time. Flat bread and lamb stew, spicy with mint. The dinnerware fared slightly better, this go 'round. Alex smiled with satisfaction. Marita just nodded. She handed him a black leather sports bag. Pack up your things, it's time to go." 

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

#

CHAPTER TWO

#

"The deepest need of man is the need to overcome his separateness, to leave the prison of his aloneness." -- Ethan Fromm

#

International Airport, Tunis, Tunisia

Midnight, Thursday, May 24th 

#

 

They made it to the air port and checked in, then lolled about the crowded departure lounge making small talk until it was time to board. By the time the plane left the tarmac, it was midnight.

 

First class was only half booked, and there was no one in the seats ahead, behind, or across from them, allowing them to converse fairly candidly about what had been happening in the world during Alex's 'vacation.' According to Marita, Cancer Man wasn't looking too good. "It's the tissue transplant," she confided. "Apparently, he's rejecting it, only he refuses to have the follow-up operation to have the stuff removed."

 

Furthermore, people who actually knew about the aliens, and the full scope of Majestik 12's projects, were few and far between since the unfortunate consequences of the El Rico Air Force Base debacle. Specifically, the struggle to see who would take the Elders' place in the Consortium's Inner Circle. It hadn't been an orderly, or peaceful transition, and it had left the new leaders with an appalling lack of knowledgeable minions who could do their dirty work.

 

Morley, one of Spender's many aliases, had been the Consortium's equivalent of a War Lord. Without his steel fist and the human resources to obey his orders, the organization was finding it hard to...'enforce its will' on the bribed, coerced, or threatened yet entirely too arrogant, self-important, and demanding scientists in its employ. 

 

"Let's face it," Marita said, "No self-respecting wet works operative is going to follow the lead of a sick old fart who insists his targets are EBEs who require special handling. If Morley is to retain the reins of power over these low level thugs, he has to be perceived as sane --nutcases do not reliable employers make. You may be a thief and a self-serving bastard, but you know the score, and you're experienced in handling these types of situations."

 

Alex grunted. So, he was to be alien hunting, eh? "Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he said phlegmatically while, inside, his guts raged. He had once vowed to get revenge on the old bastard. He'd wanted to kill him --had had several chances to kill him-- but, through a combination of lack of circumstances, the advice of his fellow conspirators, and tyro timidity, he had never acted on his lethal impulses. 

 

Now, while there was no one left alive to tell him he needed the pustulant sack of pulmonary carcinomas alive, he was, unfortunately, a seasoned and cautious operative --one who intended to live a long life, thank you-- which meant he'd need more than desire, nerve, and a half-way decent excuse to murder *anyone,* let alone someone that highly connected to Majestik 12 --even if they were as smug a prat as Spender. Just ditching his escort and snubbing the old bastard's invitation to parley when he'd obviously gone to so much trouble to bring him to the table would be risky enough business. Satisfying, but risky. 

 

It took five hours for them to get from terminal to terminal, which, factoring in the time difference between the two cities, meant that they touched down in D.C. at precisely midnight. By the time they collected their baggage, rented a car, and hauled their bags up to their new hotel suite, it was one a.m. 

 

Krycek changed back into his jeans and leather jacket, and held his hand out. Car keys?" he asked.

 

Marita snorted. "In your dreams."

 

"Cab fare to Georgetown?"

 

"No way."

 

Alex drew himself up into an indignant sneer. "Fine. I'll thumb it." He headed for the door.

 

"You're not going anywhere without me!" Marita challenged.

 

"Ha! Now *that's* some delightful imagery! Listen, Sweetie, I just hit civilization after eight months in a Muslim snake pit. You wanna tag along and watch me drink booze, eat pork products, and fuck some luscious butt-boy, well..., it wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

 

Marita drew a Glock out of her purse, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat. "Sit down."

 

Alex smirked. "Go ahead and shoot me, sister. Just remember who'll be telling Old Smoky why I couldn't attend his briefing --and after you spent all his nice, cold cash to get me this close to his doorstep, too. Tsk, tsk." 

 

Marita fumed, but her arm --and the Glock in it-- dropped to her side.

 

Alex smirked. "Hasta manana."

 

"Be back by eight a.m.!" she shouted after him. He didn't acknowledge her. She threw up her hands and stalked to her bedroom.

 

#

 

Alex took a taxi to a self-storage facility with twenty-four hour access. He told the cabbie to wait, then he dug a key out of his jacket lining and let himself in. The unit --and a dozen like it all across the globe-- were maintained by a law firm he'd retained under a bogus identity with clean, untraceable money funneled through a special trust fund Alex had set up in the Cayman Islands with the proceeds from a few of his DAT tape secret sales. It was virtually untraceable to him, and it insured that he would always have bolt holes and caches to sustain him in times of need --providing he could get to them, of course. 

 

In addition to money, weapons, ammo, clothes, a clean, pre-paid cell phone, and a selection of bogus identities complete with social security numbers, driver's licenses, and all the major credit cards, this particular stash, being located in his main base of operations, also contained everything he'd owned in the world prior to his escapades with Smoky and company. 

 

He'd had a couple personal friends from the old days pack up his stuff while he dashed to Frisco with the DAT tape. He'd paid them for their trouble, of course, once he, himself, got paid. It wasn't as if he had so many 'old friends' he could afford to stiff them, even if he was on the run. Luckily, his particular brand of 'friends' didn't ask questions, embarrassing or otherwise. And they were too decent to rip him off. 

 

It had been years since he had been in touch with them, though. No need to put them in the kind of danger proximity to him would attract. He touched one of the cardboard boxes stacked shoulder high all around him, as if to re-establish the bond between them. Then, the labels on one particular stack of boxes caught his eye: clothes. 

 

He hadn't thought he'd had enough clothes to fill that many boxes. He opened the top box, on a whim, and came face to face with a pimp lavender, bell-bottomed, faux jump suit. 'Faux' because the three-inch-wide belt thats surface was covered with pyramid shaped, silver nail-head studs, hid a zipper that separated the jumpsuit's top from its bottom, to allow easy access. Below it was a blindingly white, single breasted, hip-hugging leisure suit. Both outfits were made from fashionable, '70's polyester.

 

He dug further, finding the cardinal red, electric blue, and mafia black french cuffed shirts that made the leisure suit 'look' pop, and, at the very bottom of the box, the white leather and lavender suede platform-heeled ankle boots that completed the outfits.

 

//Oh. My. *God!*// Alex marveled. No doubt the items had been hidden amongst his stash to elicit nightmares that would haunt him forevermore. He sure as hell wouldn't have packed the outfits himself. They were 'business' suits, worn as 'john-bait' during his Disco trolling, teen hooker days. No way did he want to remember those days. So, who did he have to thank for boxing these abominations from his salad days? //Tommy, no doubt,// he decided, plotting revenge. They'd spent many a night loitering on corners together, hoping to make the rent. Tommy always had been the sentimental sort. //The big doofus.//

 

His brief trip down Nostalgia Lane ruined by the sartorial horrors still in his possession, Alex replaced the lid on the box and pulled free another, more familiar container, which held his emergency cash. He peeled off five hundred dollars worth of twenties, then hunted out the boxes that held his emergency weapons. He topped his accessories off with an unused, untraceable, prepaid cell phone. Then, feeling well-heeled and well protected, he relocked the unit, went back out to the cabbie, and had the man drop him off in front of the White House. 

 

From there, it was just a four block walk to the Hoover building, where he picked up the palm pilot that controlled Walter's nanobots. He flagged down another cab, and had it take him to Crystal City, specifically the Vista Towers condominium complex. He slipped in past the complex's night watchman, then gave Skinner a call on the cell phone while he rode the elevator up. 

 

"Skinner here," came Walter's forgivably groggy greeting. 

 

Alex activated the nanobots for a second. Just long enough for Walter to know they were kicking. Then he dialed them down. "I'm in the building," he said, his voice a husky growl. He rang off before Skinner had time to reply.

 

The elevator stopped on the seventeenth floor. Alex strode to Skinner's door and rang the bell. He could hear Walter galloping downstairs. He could sense Walter peering out at him through the spy hole in the door. Then the door locks were engaged, and Walter swung the door open, his well-toned, boxer's body filling --and barring-- the doorway. 

 

"You're late," Walter said. "By about six months."

 

"Yeah.... Something came up," Alex said sheepishly, staring at his toes. "Can I come in?"

 

"I don't know, can you?" Walter replied with a well practiced, and still annoying, correction of Alex's grammar.

 

"*May* I come in?" Alex rephrased.

 

Skinner stared at him and stared at him, not saying a word. He noticed Alex's pallor, the loss of weight, the slight odor of something foul that no amount of cologne and scented hygiene products could disguise. He also took notice of his own reactions to the sight of the triple agent; the slight stirring in his pants, the tightness in his chest. The relief. He stood aside. 

 

Alex looked wonderful and awful at the same time. Whatever had befallen him, it was clear from his appearance that it hadn't been a picnic. All that mattered to Walter was that Alex's inattention hadn't been deliberate. He could forgive anything but being played for a fool; cast off callously, without a second thought, only to be imposed upon in a time of need. Walter Skinner would not be taken for granted. 

 

Alex slipped inside and Walter relocked the door. Alex and Skinner had had a somewhat sporadic 'sex thing' going on ever since Alex had helped the F.B.I. catch a serial killer --almost losing his own life in the process-- a little over a year ago. 

 

"So, you get around to that ice fishing you planned on?" Alex asked as casually as he could.

 

"No. I couldn't seem to get over the one that I thought got away," Skinner confessed.

 

"Yeah?.... I missed you, too," Alex mumbled.

 

Skinner closed the gap between them and captured Alex's lips. "You taste different," he said as he grabbed the back of Alex's head and sniffed him. "You smell...odd."

 

"I'm really me!" Alex exclaimed with sudden panic. "Prick me if you want!"

 

Skinner snorted. "I just might do that. Later."

 

Alex flinched. "Uh, how about a beer, huh?" he dipped to escape Skinner's clutches and practically ran to the kitchen. 

 

Walter frowned, but followed --at a much more sedate pace. By the time he reached the archway leading into the kitchen, Alex had opened the refrigerator door, spied a package of beef, and had picked it up with his prosthetic hand so he could run his real hand over the plastic wrapped surface. 

 

"Steak...," Alex whispered reverently. He abruptly thrust the package back into the meat compartment. "No," he said to himself, if aloud, "better not." He reached for the beer, then spied another tempting tidbit. "Cheese! Cheese and crackers! That's easy to digest," he said eagerly. Then he spied a tempting package in another of the refrigerator's compartments, the one in which Skinner kept his deli goods. He opened it up. "Honey baked ham!" Alex shrieked delightedly. "A ham and cheese sandwich! Perfect!" He started snatching up condiments and stuffing them into the crook of his arm. Miracle Whip, mustard, a bottle of sweet pickles, as well as the ham and cheese and a tomato. Finally, he snagged two long necked Lowenbrau's, kicked the refrigerator door shut with his heel, and laid his burden onto the kitchen table. The search for a knife and bread --the seven grain type-- followed, and then he was happily at work building himself his promised pork meat comestible. 

 

When he was done, Alex grinned at Walter, who was now leaning casually against the doorway, a bemused smile teasing his face.

 

Alex screwed off the caps from the beers and waved his and over his assembled feast. "A pint of ale, a sandwich of pork, and thou," he paraphrased. Skinner shook his head with feigned exasperation. Alex took a swig of beer and hummed in appreciation, then veritably swooned over a mouthful of sandwich. "Oh! Damn! This is so good! ...Got any chocolate?"

 

Skinner laughed, but he stepped over to a cabinet and tossed a bar of Scharffen Berger dark, semi-sweet, seventy-two per cent chocolate at him.

 

"Oh. My. God! Walter! My hero!" Alex rapped the bar against the tabletop, tore off the wrapper, and stuffed a sizable chunk of the now broken chocolate bar into his mouth. "Ooh! Heaven! Absolute heaven!" Abruptly he slammed his hand onto the tabletop and twisted in his chair, daubing at his eyes with his prosthetic's glove.

 

In seconds, Walter was at his side, wrapping him in his embrace, "It's OK, Alex. You're safe. Come on. Let's take this upstairs, hmm?"

 

For the second time that night, Alex flinched in his arms and twisted free. 

 

Walter sat down and looked him hard in the eye-- until Alex broke his gaze to stare at his hand, splayed over the tabletop. It curled into a fist and knuckled the wood.

 

"I can't, Walter. I can't. Not tonight. Maybe not for a while.... To-- tonight--," he stammered. "I need to top somebody. I know you've never...--and that's fine! Most nights. Maybe again. Soon. But not tonight. I've gotta be the one putting it in, tonight."

 

Walter stiffened. "You mean you waltzed in here at two A. M. to kiss me, eat my food, and drink my brew, only to tell me you're going back out there to find something more to your taste to screw?" 

 

Alex hunched in his chair. "Please, Walter, don't hate me," he pleaded. 

 

"I don't hate you, Alex," Walter cooed, and, as if to prove it, he stroked Alex's cheek with his curled fingers. "I just don't understand why you think you can't ask me to bottom for you?" 

 

Alex jerked his head up, eyes agog and mouth agape. "Wha--? But --but you're --you're not --you've never bottomed in your life!"

 

"Well, you're always trying to expand my sexual horizons.... I can't think of a better time to experiment than when you really need it."

 

"You'd --you'd do that f-- for me?"

 

"Hey, that's what lovers do," Walter vowed. 

 

Alex threw himself into Walter's arms. "Oh, God, Walter! You're the best!"

 

Walter smiled and buried his nose into the crook between Alex's neck and shoulder. He jerked back. "That's delousing solution!" he declared. "I *knew* I recognized that smell! It just took me awhile to place it."

 

"Yeah, well, the good news is: it works really well. I'm free of any and all critters," Alex promised.

 

Walter frowned. "You've been in prison somewhere along the Mediterranean, probably on the North African side...Tunisia, right?" Walter deduced, remembering something Mulder had once said about Consortium projects in that country.

 

Alex gaped again. "Man! Sherlock Holmes has nothin' on you! How'd you know?"

 

"The prison pallor, the scent of spice on your skin --vegetarian sweet, but exotic, with a hint of olives. Your gums are bleeding. You passed up the steak, because it was too hard to digest, but you practically orgasmed when you found the ham, you ate as if you hadn't had a decent meal in months, your shoulder is slightly off-level, you're using your prosthetic like you haven't had it long. And you've lost weight. All indicators that wherever you were being held was short on niceties and Muslim."

 

"How did you know I was on a vegetarian diet?" 

 

Walter smiled. "'Nam. The gooks used to brag that they could smell a GI a mile away. I can't vouch for the distance, but I can about the smell. They were living on a diet of rice balls and wild fruit, but we always had meat with every meal --Uncle Sam has this bully beef notion that a steady diet of red meat protein makes better GIs. The reason we eat herbivores is because carnivore meat is acrid. Because we ate meat, our own 'meat' was acrid. So was our smell. Eliminate the meat and, about six weeks later, the stench goes away, too. That's why animals aren't afraid of vegetarians. They can smell the fact that they don't eat meat. And since they only equate danger with carnivores, they don't consider them dangerous. I happen to know it's true because a lot of our LuRPs went native --eating only Vietnamese food instead of our standard rations-- so they couldn't be tracked by their scent. We were in pretty close quarters at base camp, so the difference was readily noticeable. Now, I showed you mine....?" he prompted.

 

Alex shrugged. "The Lord Smoky taketh away and the Lord Smoky giveth. He built a better rat trap, but when he needed someone to do his dirty work, he sprang me. I haven't met with him, yet --now that I'm back in the States I don't know that I will-- so I don't know exactly what he wants, but, according to Marita, it has something to do with hunting for aliens."

 

"Hm. I don't mean to *noodge,*" Walter said, slipping a little of his grandmother's Yiddish into his conversation, "but we haven't had much intel from that quarter since your enforced absence. If it wouldn't be too much bother, maybe you could take the meeting and give me a sit rep?"

 

Alex snorted. "OK, Sergeant *Bubbelah,*" Alex replied in kind. "I'll go, already. Now, I believe I was meeting a man about a cherry he wanted to bust?"

 

Walter grinned. "Upstairs, Brat. The sheets are already turned down."

 

Alex sprang out of his chair and ran up the stairs to Skinner's room, Skinner hot on his heels.

 

Walter wanted to ask Alex where he was hurt, but he knew that was something Alex would never tell him. It was enough that Alex had pleaded for understanding. That he needed Walter as he'd never needed him before. It was enough that Walter needed to be needed. That he could deny Alex nothing, not even the alpha male's right to mount his lover.

 

Walter followed Alex upstairs and doffed his robe. Alex was still undressing. He'd started with the laces on his boots. For some reason, although he had no trouble allowing Walter to undo the buttons on his shirt --when he wore a shirt that buttoned-- he wouldn't let him untie his shoes. 

 

Alex unzipped his jacket while he toed his socks off. He had clever toes that could pick things up off the floor, which came in handy for a one armed man. He could even tie his shoes with his toes, a trick that, he had once confided to Skinner, he had mastered because he had read that Houdini, arguably the greatest escape artist of all time, had found the talent invaluable. 

 

Walter had never asked Alex if he, too, had found the talent useful. It was just one of those quirky things that distracted him on lazy days when they watched football on his large-screen TV. Alex, not the most avid of sports fans, would inevitably practice his toe skills by incessantly tying and untying his shoes during the game.

 

Walter got the distinct impression Alex would have liked to be able to toe open his pants while he stripped off his t-shirt, as well, but that was a trick only a contortionist as flexible as a boa constrictor could hope to manage. He moved in to help with Alex's pants, but Alex shrugged away. 

 

"I've got it," he said.

 

"Alex? Do me a favor?" Walter asked.

 

"What?"

 

"Our first go-round, let me taste you?"

 

Alex chewed his lower lip. Was Walter getting cold feet? Or did he just want to enjoy the taste of his temporarily vegetarian lover before his resumption of meat-eating restored his normally 'acrid' taste? Either way, Alex was willing to accommodate his lover. Walter had always been a considerate lover, himself, and tonight was the zenith in that regard. "Sure, Bear," he said.

 

Skinner unconsciously smacked his lips, and Alex laughed. He finished doffing his clothing, then used the key that released the suction on his prosthetic. Once he had laid it carefully on the night stand, he let Walter back him up against the side of the mattress. 

 

"Sit down, make yourself comfortable," Walter invited. Alex sat down and spread his legs so Walter could kneel between them. 

 

Walter stroked his lover's body. Privation had pared him down visibly, but, despite his lack of bulk, his penis was as fat and happy to see him as ever. Walter always enjoyed looking at it. It was the absolutely most beautiful penis he had ever seen. Not that he had seen a lot of them, especially compared to the number Alex had seen. Still, it never failed to inspire him with lustful thoughts. He grinned and lapped at it in welcome. And then it was his turn to hum in awe at the taste in his mouth.

 

Like a bee foraging for nectar, he wiggled the tip of his tongue into Alex's piss slit while he encouraged it to give up its bounty with some healthy suction. He was rewarded with tiny pearls of Alex essence. It was mild, without the undertones of sweetness Walter usually detected --but then, he very much doubted the Tunisian prison diet included rashers of candy. His poor, sweet deprived Rat. He had never known a grown man to enjoy sweets as much as Alex --particularly chocolate. He wondered, if he bribed Alex with enough chocolate, would he stay a vegetarian? He recalled the way Alex had fondled the steak and devoured his ham sandwich and giggled. There wasn't enough chocolate in the Western Hemisphere to keep Alex meat-free long enough to plump him back up to his more delightfully full bodied self.

 

Somehow, Alex knew exactly what he was thinking. "Can't I just promise to eat pineapple regularly?" Alex asked plaintively, as though Walter really could dictate what he ate.

 

"Hm. Definitely worth trying," Walter said agreeably before he swallowed Alex to the root.

 

"Ahh! So good!" Alex squealed.

 

Walter bobbed on his treat like a carrousel horse, sucking and teasing till Alex came with a shout. Then, holding the ejaculate in his mouth, he rose up and slithered across his lover's sweat-slick, heaving chest to share his bounty with the man who had provided it.

 

Alex's eyebrows rose. "Damn! That *is* different! Not bitter at all. Hmm...." He gazed speculatively at Walter, who laughed again. 

 

"Pineapple," Walter said sagaciously. "I promise to eat some every day."

 

They laughed, and scooted back to make themselves more comfortable on the bed. "Walter, you're a prince among men."

 

"Anything for you, my Sweet. And speaking of sweets, do you think these little tidbits have gotten any tastier since I last sampled them?" he asked, moving down to suckle Alex's nipples one after the other. He laved and licked his way all over Alex's body, enjoying the same-yet-different way he tasted as he reacquainted himself with his lover's body. He didn't like the way he could count every rib, but he was pretty sure it wouldn't last, not now that Alex was back in the land of fast fried food franchises.

 

Alex, for his part, happily licked and sucked at any part of Walter that got within range. Unlike him, Walter smelled and tasted exactly as Alex remembered him, only, now, he had a better appreciation and understanding of *why* he tasted the way he tasted. "Ugh! Man! Meat eater," he grunted, caveman-like, before attacking Walter's pride and joy.

 

While Alex was by no means under-developed, at eight erect inches, twelve inches of erect Walter was a sight to behold. Sometimes it made Alex *feel* tiny, for his penis was thinner than Walter's, as well. Walter was a size queen's dream come true --and you really *did* have to be a size queen not to flinch at the thought of that virtual third arm ramming into your colon. Some might have run screaming from the room in fright at the sheer immensity of Walter's stallion-sized cock, but, as far as Alex was concerned, Walter was just thick enough and long enough to make you feel truly possessed.

 

Alex had figured Walter for a shower when he'd first caught sight of him in a hotel room in Frisco --and he'd have had no complaints if he were. Imagine his surprise when that ten inch bad boy grew another two inches and swelled to half again its breadth when fully aroused!

 

Having Walter sheathed in his ass gave Alex a satisfying 'full bull' feeling. But, much as he enjoyed it, it would be weeks, if not longer, before Alex would feel secure enough to let somebody else fuck him again. No matter that Walter was as dear as to him as he was, his anal canal spasmed at the thought of any intruders --particularly ones as huge as Walter.

 

Before he had accepted Walter as his lover, Alex had been the top in all his relationships. He'd insisted on it. He'd earned his living with his ass and mouth. When it came time for *his* pleasure, damnit all, *he* wanted to be the one lording it over the other guy. 

 

The fact that Walter would even contemplate giving up the dominant position that every 'boss' and 'john' had --quite literally-- drilled into him, meant more to Alex than words could express. Especially considering Walter's past sexual experience --or lack of same. In some countries Walter wouldn't have even been considered gay, because he'd never taken a cock up his ass. He'd traded hand jobs and sodomized a few boys during his tour 'in country,' but that was all he'd done before Alex. Now, Mr. Straight and Narrow was asking to take it up the ass just to keep Alex at home in bed with him.

 

A surge of affection made Alex feel warm all over. He wasn't exactly in love with Walter, leastwise, he didn't feel anything like the desperate lust he'd felt for Mulder once upon a time, but he did feel *something* for Walter, and whatever else it was, it was comforting and good and --and just what he needed, he realized. "My Prince Charming," he murmured.

 

"My Little Sweet Meat," Walter replied almost teasingly in return.

 

Alex longed to let his tongue delve deeper down, all the way into Walter's essence, but Walter was both very fastidious and very vanilla, and he wouldn't have allowed Alex to kiss him again unless he brushed his teeth and used an antiseptic mouth wash. So, since Alex did not intend to break the mood *or* deprive himself of Walter's tender kisses, he allowed his fingers to do his delving, instead.

 

Since Walter was an anal virgin --and Alex wasn't truly tiny--his lover would need all the stretching he could give him before the main event. Alex wanted to make sure this experience was as satisfying and painless for Walter as possible. Then, maybe, sometime in the far off future, Walter would let Alex top him again.

 

Walter's ministrations had Alex's penis ready for round two, but Alex wanted Walter totally relaxed before he did the deed, so he didn't stop sucking and stretching till Walter blew his wad. Only then did he kneel up. "Ready, Walter?"

 

"I better be after all that attention," Walter said. He started to roll over, but Alex held him down.

 

"No. I want to see you." 

 

Walter shifted on the bed, not only to make himself more comfortable, but so he could reach back behind the headboard and grab a condom and lube. Before they'd had sex, Walter hadn't even known two men could have sex face to face. Supplies in hand, Walter did the honors, rolling the latex sheath over Alex's stiff organ and coating it with lube. Then he squeezed a dollop of lube onto Alex's palm, so Alex could grease Walter's crack and hole. 

 

Alex paused to drink in the sight of Walter, this big bear of a man who could snap his bones like so much kindling, laid out on the mattress like some sacrificial lamb, spread open and greased for Alex's pleasure. "Damn, you look hot! Relax for me, Bear," Alex instructed. He positioned his glans over Walter's puckered entrance and pushed into virgin territory. 

 

Walter tensed, despite his preparations, but when Alex reminded him to relax he tried consciously to do just that. He must have succeeded, because Alex pushed another inch into him. 

 

Alex held still again, just for a few seconds, then he pulled back till the rim of his glans hit the tight ring of sphincter muscle and pushed forward again, farther than before, and back out and in, again and again, till he finally pressed his hot balls against Walter's sweet ass. "Oh, yeah! How do you want it, Vlad, hard and fast or slow and easy?"

 

"I think slow and easy, this time," Walter said.

 

His words hit Alex like lightning. *This Time!* "Oh, Bear! You're the best!"

 

Defying his elation, Alex pumped long and slow, and made sure to give his hips a little up-swinging punch at different intervals during his in-stroke, poking blindly for Walter's sweet spot. A few strokes later Walter jerked as if electrified and bellowed.

 

"Yiiie! What was that!?"

 

Alex laughed. "Your prostate, Walter. Feels good, huh?" 

 

"Fuck, yeah! Do it again!" Walter urged.

 

Alex grinned. "Pushy bottom." But he obliged. Over and over again.

 

"Oh, damn!" Walter cried, as he felt himself getting hard again. "I always wondered how a man could *want* to be fucked up his ass --now I know! So good! Oh, God! I had no idea! Oh, shit! Harder!"

 

Alex rose up, off Walter's chest, so he could concentrate on hitting the sweet spot without throwing his back completely out of whack, planting Walter's bent legs to either side of him so he could grab a knee and anchor himself and thrust that much harder. Walter didn't seem to notice the loss of Alex's kisses.

 

"Ooh! Look at me! I'm erect! I just had an orgasm --and I'm hard as a fucking rock! I haven't repeated this hard this fast since my teens!"

 

Alex felt his own orgasm filling his balls. "Jerk yourself off, Vlad. Enjoy the moment!"

 

Walter needed no second urging. A half dozen tugs and he was spewing cum. His ecstatic spasms took Alex over the edge. Alex slammed his balls to the wall and clenched his ass and teeth both, pulsing out his release with a yell. "Ah! Oh! Yes! Yes! Mercy! that was so fine!" He pulled out, then fell over sideways like a felled tree. 

 

Walter took a moment to relieve Alex of the used condom, then he draped his arms around his lover and kissed him a thank you. "That was eye-opening, Valyushka," he said, using the Russian diminutive of Alex's real given name, just as Alex had used a shortened form of the Russian for 'Walter' as a 'pet' name. 

 

"You were incredible," Alex smiled. "Thank you."

 

"No. Thank *you,*" Walter said. "I thought I was doing something for you, but, once again, you have rewarded me ten times over."

 

"Aw. You're so sweet when you get chocolate chips in your vanilla," Alex smiled and he kissed the tip of Walter's nose before drifting off to a sound and dreamless sleep.

 

#


	3. Chapter 3

#

CHAPTER THREE

#

"Diplomacy is the art of saying 'nice doggy' until you can find a rock." -- Will Rogers

#

Vista Towers, Crystal City, Virginia

Six-thirty a.m., Thursday, May 24th

#

 

The alarm clock woke them at six-thirty. It was another work day for Walter S. Skinner. And, since Alex also had places to go and people to meet, he dragged his ass out of bed right alongside his lover. They made the best of a bad situation by showering together, but neither of them had recovered enough from their early morning antics to do more than wash the other tenderly.

 

After they dressed, Walter made them breakfast: bacon, eggs, toast --and pineapple juice. Alex laughed delightedly at the sight, but he downed his portion with a gleam in his eye. Walter winked at him and did the same.

 

"Will you be available this weekend?" Walter asked. 

 

Alex shrugged. "I don't know. Depends on how urgent that project Smoky's lined up for me is. With my luck, he'll pack me off to Antarctica ASAP with no chance to call. You never know, with him."

 

Walter nodded. Spender, Sr. --a convenient misnomer to distinguish the elder spy from the younger F.B.I. agent, since 'Charles' had actually named his son 'Jeffery'-- had the damnedest habit of showing up when you least expected it and saying: 'jump.' "Fair enough. Just promise you'll call when you get a chance --and watch your back."

 

Alex snorted and crossed his heart. "And front and sides, too. Hey, I could use a lift into town, Big Guy. You game?"

 

"Sure."

 

They finished breakfast and Walter washed the dishes and set them into the drainboard before he grabbed his briefcase and keys and headed down to the basement garage. 

 

Alex had Walter drop him off at a bus stop a few blocks from the Hoover building, so no one --including Walter-- would see him sneak into the Hoover to hide the palm pilot. Once the device was safely stashed, he flagged down a taxi and had himself delivered back to the hotel.

 

Marita was in a peach silk dressing gown eating breakfast when Alex came in unannounced. She had her Glock aimed at him before he made it through the door. Alex smirked at her. She sighed loudly, put the gun away, and gave him the once-over. "Well," she said as he sauntered into the room, "you looked well fucked."

 

Alex stretched like a lazy cat. "Hmm.... I'm three for three. Ham, bacon, beer, and an all night sex session with a hot butt boy. It doesn't get any better'n that," he grinned.

 

Her look telegraphed her disgust. "Why don't you get dressed, then, and leave me to finish my meal?"

 

"I *am* dressed," Alex said.

 

"In your new suit," Marita amended. "I didn't buy it on a whim. The old man wants you to look more...professional."

 

"You had the tailor cut the suit so close I can't carry a weapon--...oh. So *that's* how it is, is it? The old man doesn't *want* me to go in armed --so to speak," Alex jibed, as he held up his prosthetic.

 

"Go to the head of the class," Marita congratulated him drily.

 

Alex snorted, but he changed, as requested. He also made sure he packed everything he had on him and in the room in the sports bag she'd provided. He also managed to stow his plam in his front vest pocket, and his garrote in his side pocket. He wasn't going anywhere near that old fart without armament of some kind.

 

He set his bag on the sofa, and watched TV till Marita was ready to go. He took his bag to the door with him and she pursed her lips. "You don't need to bring your bag, Alex."

 

"I know." He didn't set it down, however. 

 

"I'm not bringing *my* things --I'm not checking out of the hotel."

 

"Good for you." Alex brought the bag anyway. He stashed it in the spare tire well, rolling the spare over the carpeted lid *just so.* He'd know if anyone tampered with it. Then he got in and enjoyed the ride. Spender had managed to find himself another in a long succession of indistinguishable walk-up apartments. This one had delusions of pretentiousness, dubbing itself The Watergate Arms. The only feature it shared with the more prestigious Watergate Hotel was the lack of urine and vomit decorating the hallways, actually a plus in Alex's book, considering the fleapits he had frequented in more desperate straits. 

 

Luckily, Smoky was only two floors up. 

 

It took every bit of Alex's training to keep from gasping at his first sight of the old man. The eight month interval had not been kind to Spender. He was smoking --with the assistance of his lovely nurse, Greta, through his tracheostomy tube, and he looked like a cross between a Smurf and a grey alien. A two thousand-year-old Smurf/alien. In a wheel chair. With the obligatory red plaid shawl over his legs. 

 

As they stood in wait like petitioners seeking counsel from their leige lord, Greta removed the cigarette so that Spender could take a breath and hold it, before stoppering the trach tube with a finger, so he could talk. "I was worried about you, Alex," he said in his normal, deceptively mild voice.

 

"Cut the crap, old man," Alex bristled.

 

"I heard about your incarceration," Spender continued, unperturbed by Alex's lack of decorum.

 

"You had me thrown in that Hell hole!" Alex snarled.

 

"For trying to sell something that was mine, was it not? I hope we can all move forward.... Put the past behind us. We have a...singular opportunity now."

 

"A singular opportunity?" Alex echoed skeptically.

 

"There's been a crash in Oregon. An alien ship collided with a military aircraft. Recovery is all important. It's Roswell and Corona all over again, fifty years later. It's our chance to rebuild the project."

 

"How do you know someone hasn't already recovered it?" Marita asked.

 

"It's never quite so easy," Spender assured her. He waved to Greta, and she wheeled him over to a nearby end table, where a little digging in the small drawer beneath the tabletop resulted in the retrieval of a plane ticket. Spender held it in his hand as if he were a wizard bestowing a magical talisman upon a fantasy game questor."Here's your ticket. Your flight leaves at one."

 

Rather than reach out to accept the ticket, Alex stepped back. "Lemme get this straight: you learned that a UFO collided with an Air Force jet--"

 

"--Navy," Spender interrupted.

 

"...A Navy jet...and it went down in Oregon. And somehow this adds up to a singular opportunity to rebuild the project? How?"

 

"By re-attaining the alien's DNA, which we lost when Purity Control was stolen from Fort Marlene."

 

"Uh huh. So, there's a ship down in Oregon, and there's other people looking for it, or so you intimated-- and possibly valuable alien corpses rotting on site, DNA degrading as we speak, but, rather than sending in the first available man to secure the area, the first thing *you* do is spring Marita from her lab cage, reinstate her as your leg man, then, rather than send *her* to Oregon, you send her half-way around the world to Tunisia, so she can 'arrange my release' and drag my thieving ass back to D.C. so that *I* can go digging for your alien corpses --and all because you can't depend on any of the lower echelon thugs you have left in your employ to follow the orders of a withered old man spouting tall tales about aliens?" Alex snorted and folded his arms. "Exactly how many men have you lost, so far, Pops?"

 

Spender smiled. "That's what I like about you, Alex: always putting the pieces together, always looking for angles. All right, I admit, I *did* send someone in ahead of you. He made a preliminary report, but he hasn't been seen or heard from since. He was able to establish that there were survivors who were attempting to rebuild the ship. Needless to say, if the aliens are able to complete their task before we can establish contact, the project will fail. 

 

"Despite your tendency to profit from whatever you lay your light little fingers on, I've always believed you believed in the goals of the Consortium, Alex. That's why I sent for you."

 

"Seems to me Marita is just as experienced, just as dedicated, and just as expendable as *I* am...so, what else aren't you telling me?" Alex mused. He chewed his thumb nail. "You wouldn't have sent a man in who didn't have the proper contact codes for the colonist aliens, so, if he's missing, it's because the aliens either aren't honoring the codes-- or they aren't colonists, they're Resistance Aliens!" he realized, and hid a frown. If Smoky knew he was on good terms with the Resistance Aliens, he was in big trouble. //Fuck it all!// That wasn't the only problem, either. Alex growled in frustration. "*They're* the ones who stole Purity Control from us in the first damn place! You can't really believe they'll just hand it over to me if I ask nicely?!"

 

"That remains to be seen," Spender said. "What I am fairly certain of, however, is that they wouldn't kill *you* just for asking. Now, will you take this?" Spender proffered the ticket once more. Alex sighed, but he took it. 

 

"Good. Now that that's settled...," Spender reached under his shawl and drew out a credit card and a familiar card holder. "Here's a company credit card. It's warming, up there, but, after your long stay in Africa, you're going to need a good coat. And I *mean* a good *topcoat,* Alex. Not that worn out, abominable biker-thug thing you hare around in. I want you to look professional. You will need to avail yourself of military aid at some point, and I won't have you looking like a Vice Squad C. I. when you do so. That means a proper shirt and tie at all times. Understood?"

 

"Sir, yes, sir!" Alex snapped off a sarcastic salute before he bent to accept the credit card and card holder. He glanced at the name of the authorized user on the former, and flipped open the latter. As he suspected, it was his Majestik 12 ID, updated with the signature of the current President, and with his own thumb-print in the rectangle other agencies used for a photo. It would give him *carte blanche* with anyone in the government.

 

"Now, I believe you have a plane to catch? Marita will drive you. You'll just have time to make it to the air port if you leave directly. Buy whatever you need in the way of supplies when you land," Spender said graciously.

 

Alex smiled tightly, glad that he had had the foresight to put his bag in the car. Smoky *did* know what he kept in his leather jacket, and he wasn't giving the old bastard a chance to rip him off. "Whatever." 

 

"And, Marita? Come straight back when you've seen Alex off," Spender instructed.

 

They all knew that was code for: 'make sure Alex gets on the plane.' 

 

The pair bowed and made their exit. As soon as they were on the stairs, Alex held out his hand. "Gimme the keys."

 

"Not on your life," Marita refused.

 

"Gimme the keys or I'll throw you down these stairs and strip them off your lifeless body," Alex rephrased in flat tones that left no doubt he would do as threatened.

 

Marita gave him the keys. 

 

Alex drove straight to the terminal, pulled up to the curb, and pulled the keys out of the ignition before he got out. 

 

"You can't park here!" Marita carped as she, too, exited the vehicle. "The white zone is for the loading and unloading of passengers, only!"

 

"If I'd left the car running, you'd've driven off before I could get my luggage out of the trunk."

 

Marita huffed. The trouble with working with Alex was that he knew her as well as she knew him.

 

Alex, bag in hand, shut the trunk and tossed the keys to Marita with a smile. "I know you'd love nothing more than to come in and see me off, but the white zone is for the loading and unloading of passengers, only. So, I'll see you around." 

 

Marita scowled at him murderously, but she climbed back into the car and started it up, pulling away before air port security could come over and give her a ticket. 

 

By the time she parked and got back to the terminal, Alex's flight had already left. She had to use *her* Majestik 12 I.D. in order to persuade air port security to show her that gate's security camera video feed, in order to confirm that Mr. John Smith --the name on the ticket-- had made his flight --and that it was the 'real' Mr. Smith, and not some hopeful stand-by Alex had foisted his ticket onto so he could slip off to parts unknown. Thankfully, the video confirmed the boarding steward's contention that Alex had indeed boarded the plane.

 

What she didn't know was that Alex had taken a moment, once he'd checked in, to call Skinner and leave a curt message: "Heading for Oregon. Hope it's not a Boojum. Look to be gone at least the weekend." 

 

Upon landing, and after renting a car, Alex, being Alex, took great delight in sniffing out the swankiest department store in Portland and buying himself an ivory colored, cableknit, cashmere sweater, a wool top coat, a black wool suit, two white Oxford shirts, three black t-shirts, a six pack of briefs, a three pack of dress socks, a pair of Rockport walkers, and three sixty-dollar-a-pop silk ties --and a new suitcase to hold them, all on the credit card, of course. He then bought a knapsack, thermos, compass, ski mask, hiking shoes, three pairs of crew socks, a plastic poncho, a flashlight, extra batteries, a 'permanent match', a first aid kit, a machete, a can of flourescent orange spray paint, a hand held Global Positioning Satellite device to aid him on his anticipated trek through the woods, and the latest model laptop computer for 'research' purposes. 

 

Then he drove up to Bellefleur, the supposed crash site. He checked into the first motel he came to, a touristy abomination with all the charm and personality of your average strip-mall, only to discover, as he bent to sign the register, that the two names just above his own belonged to none other than Mulder and Scully. He cursed softly under his breath, took note of their room numbers --they were, as usual, in adjoining rooms, and caught the clerk's eye before he committed himself. 

 

"Hey! Before I sign in, I want to make sure I'm going to be able to get some rest and privacy. Do you have a room plan? I'd like to know which units are available." 

 

The clerk obligingly showed him a floor plan of the motel. It was a single story structure, with two separate wings, one on either side of the central check-in and dining area. Scully and Mulder were on the front south wing. "I'd like this room," Alex said, pointing to a unit on the back side of the north wing. It had its own parking lot and entrance to the dining room and registration desk, so, as long as the Fibbies weren't tempted to use the swimming pool, he ought to be safe. And close enough to do some unsuspicious looking surveillance, if need be. The clerk agreed, changing out the keys, and Alex happily paid --with his credit card. 

 

He didn't think Mulder or Scully would recognize his handwriting even if they did, by some miracle, take a look at the register, since he was using the alias Albert --you can call me 'Al'-- Dalton.

 

A little snooping around town, a quick read of the local papers in the local library's periodical section, and he was up to speed on the latest doings in town. A casual snooping session at the motel's cafe charmed his waitress into spilling the 411 on their F.B.I. guests. He discovered that, far from being in the area to investigate the crash, the agents were looking into the disappearance of Deputy Ray Hoese, this at the request of fellow Deputy Billy Miles, Sheriff Mile's son.

 

Alex wondered how Mulder could be this close to a crash site and not stick his nose in, but counted his blessings. He called the Navy liaison and arranged a meet, where, with a flash of his highest clearance I.D., he learned everything that the Navy knew. The plane had been found, the pilot had been killed on impact. The black box and flight recorder had been recovered, but the cause of the crash could not be ascertained. 

 

Alex listened to the cockpit transmissions, himself. The pilot had seen nothing. Instruments had shown nothing, but, one second he had been flying along, without a care, the next there was the sound of shearing metal, shouts of surprise, then static as his console instruments blew up. The flight data indicated that, following the mystery collision, the pilot had lost control of the plane. He had died trying to regain control. He'd had no chance to bail out, because of the way the plane was cork-screwing. 

 

Mulder had yet to make an attempt to breach the perimeter of the crash site, or gain access to the records. Alex wondered what Mulder knew that he didn't. He could think of two occasions when the local constabulary had had to drag Mulder off a crash site bodily, and two others where Mulder had gotten far enough into a secure facility to merit a mind wipe. 

 

Alex smirked. Maybe Mulder was getting wiser in his dotage. Unfortunately, that left Alex with nothing more to do than take his own hike in the woods, in the hope that he'd uncover something the military types had over-looked.

 

Alex spent the weekend traipsing leisurely about the woods in proximity to the crash site. Still recovering from his recent incarceration, he was unwilling to push his too fragile health by over-doing it in Smoky's service. By mid afternoon, Sunday, he hadn't found a thing. Frustrated, he headed back to his rental and drove back to the motel, where he idled in the motel's southeast parking lot, almost directly outside Mulder's room, and called Spender to complain. "In spite of a great deal of effort, no one seems to be able to find this UFO of yours." 

 

"Of course they can't," Spender answered promptly. 

 

"You know why? 'Cause it's not here!" 

 

"It's there, Alex, I'm certain of it. Hidden in plain sight."

 

"You listen to me. If you're going to play games, the two of them, Mulder and Scully, they're going to beat me to it."

 

"Are you saying that Mulder and Scully are there looking for the UFO?"

 

"They're looking for a missing deputy."

 

"Well, they're looking for the right thing, but in the wrong place."

 

"You sent me looking for a ship."

 

"Find the deputy, find the ship," Spender said in a condescending tone that made Alex's blood boil.

 

"Shit! What the fuck are the aliens doing going around abducting people if they just crashed here willy nilly? Shouldn't they have more important things to do --like repairing their ship so they can get the hell out of Dodge before they're caught?"

 

"They're aliens, Alex. They don't think like we do." 

 

"Yeah, right."

 

"Look, they were in the area for a reason. They obviously don't see the crash as any impediment to their original agenda. That's good. It will give you more time to find them. So, find the deputy--"

 

"--find the ship," Alex concluded. "Yeah, yeah. I'm on it." Alex disconnected, then bounced the cell phone off the passenger seat in frustration. 

 

# 

 

Back in Spender's apartment, nurse Greta helped the old man enjoy a smoke. Marita, who had been 'standing by' at the apartment since her trip to the airport, shifted uneasily, creeped out by the spectacle of the death-hued agent smoking through his breathing tube. 

 

"Thank you, Greta," Spender said graciously. The nurse backed away. 

 

"Why the trouble? To bring Krycek here and then toy with him?" Marita asked.

 

"Do you trust Alex, Marita?"

 

The answer to his question was self-evident in the narrowing of her eyes. "Then why bring him here at all?" she asked.

 

"You misunderstand. I've great faith that Alex will find the ship. But, if I told him how, he'd be...--" he paused to take a breath, then he replugged the trach tube with his finger. "He'd be tempted to sell the information," he concluded.

 

Marita knew that was an idiotic notion. It didn't matter if Alex unearthed the information himself or was given it outright. All Alex required was enough time-- and a good reason-- to find a buyer and, more crucially, a way to keep the merchandise available until the buyer could acquire it. Since Alex had no way to secure this particular 'merchandise,' even if he had, for some reason, a motive to sell the Resistence Aliens out, the likelihood he'd go looking for a buyer was remote. The fact that Morley would even entertain such a notion was so fantastic as to be delusional. Not that Marita told Morley that. "And you're certain it's there?"

 

"Oh, yes. But it won't be there forever. It's rebuilding itself."

 

"If he finds the ship, then what?" 

 

"To possess it is to possess the answer to all things. Every possible imaginable question."

 

Marita almost scoffed. It was no big secret that several colony ships had been secreted in various barren regions around the planet, the Arctic and Antarctica, the Ivory Coast, Siberia. Or that Morley had had more contact with those alien ships than most. He'd had decades to assign someone to record and translate these so-called 'answers to everything,' so why was he so eager to capture *this* ship, now? She fleetingly thought that, just possibly, the 'answers' provided by a rebel ship might differ from those of a colonist ship --but, no, the rebellion hadn't started until *after* the aliens had had prolonged exposure to humans, which meant all of their ships would have been part of the same fleet, and hence, one could safely assume, identical. She wondered if there was any way to draw Morley out, assess his mental state. "To God?"

 

"There is no God, Marita. What we call God is only alien --an intelligence much greater than us." 

 

"They're coming here, aren't they?"

 

"They're only coming back."

 

#


	4. Chapter 4

#

CHAPTER FOUR

#

"We often do wrong on purpose, but we rarely do right by accident." --Unknown

#

Motel Room, Bellefleur, Oregon

Sunday, May 27th

#

 

Alex, ensconced in his motel room once more, rubbed his forehead. "Hidden in plain sight," he echoed. Then it hit him. "Hidden in *plane* sight!" If the alien craft had actually crash landed, there would have to be traces --physical evidence: broken branches, scorching, maybe even residual radiation that one could see from the air --if you knew what to look for. Even if the craft had deployed a force field to erase those traces from its immediate vicinity, the field could only extend so far. He hadn't been able to find any evidence of the craft from the ground, but the most likeliest place to find evidence of a falling object was from the sky.

 

Alex determined to drive to the nearest air port and hire a helicopter to fly a search pattern over the woods. "But from what starting point?"

 

Well, first off, the aliens were close enough to abduct people living in and around Bellefleur, so they had to be within walking distance, because the cruiser of the deputy that had disappeared the same day as the crash hadn't been stolen, which meant --presuming the aliens *had* abducted him-- they hadn't needed the car to transport him or any of their other victims back to the craft. While the aliens could walk farther, faster than mere humans, and could probably carry their victims miles without discomfort, it made more sense that the abductees were walking, and since they *didn't* have the alien's stamina, that strongly suggested that the ship was close by. 

 

Alex put a red mark on the map over the town of Bellefleur. Then he plotted out the spots on the map over which the collision had occurred and the Navy plane had crashed. Then he drew a twenty-five mile circle around Bellefleur, considering that to be the outer limits of what the average human could comfortably walk in a day if hard pressed.

 

The jet's crash site was within the circle, so, he marked the area he had already searched, reasonably sure that they couldn't have hidden it that well from his practiced eye. But he still needed more input. He thought back to Spender's advice. "Find the deputy, find the ship." 

 

Alex thought back to the newspaper report of Deputy Hoese's disappearance, remembering the road and the approximate distance he was from the town center. He marked that spot on his map. It was just outside his circle, opposite the area where the jet crashed. //Bingo!// 

 

He drew a new twenty-five mile circle, using the location of the deputy's car as a hub, then drew a line from the point of the jet's collision to the point where the deputy's car had been found. Then, using Bellefleur as the apex, he drew two lines from the town to either side of the circle around the deputy's car. That gave him his search coordinates, and a probable flight trajectory. Using those two items of information, he had a basic area in which to launch his search for physical evidence. 

 

He'd need more equipment. A good pair of binoculars, maybe a zoom lens camera, so he could photograph the area for later research. He looked up the nearest airport that housed charter helicopters on the lap top, located it on the map, then looked up the local businesses, to find a place that carried cameras and binoculars. 

 

Places marked and noted, he snuggled into bed for a good night's rest. Tomorrow would be a long day. He closed his eyes, but thoughts of Walter Skinner bubbled into his consciousness. It was as if being in a warm, cosy bed was a Pavlovian signal to his penis to stand up and beg for Walter's divine ministrations. The last night they'd spent together had been incredible. He could almost delude himself into thinking that the ache in his ass was due to Walter's sweet attentions, rather than four months of sexual abuse. 

 

That other place was like a bad dream, now that he had Walter back in his life. Alex marveled at the irony of it all. He couldn't get over how enthusiastic Walter had been in bed. How hot he looked as Alex pistoned his sweet spot. Walter's eyes had rolled back in his head as his body jerked from the sensations his prostate sent through his body at the discretion of Alex's turgid cock. 

 

All Alex could think about was how good it was going to feel when he could fuck Walter again --and be fucked by him in turn. Big, sweaty Walter, chest hairs dewy with exertion, his little bud of a hole pulsing as jism exploded into him like a geyser. 

 

Walter could have physically bullied Alex in bed, but he was the most considerate lover Alex had ever known. He loved kissing. Didn't mind spend hours cuddling, didn't mind bottoming, loved trying new things. Anything to make Alex happy, comfortable, and wanting more. Walter admired him, respected him...made him feel loved and accepted. Unlike a certain other F.B.I. agent who was currently in too close proximity for comfort. 

 

Comparisons were inevitable, of course. Sex with Mulder had been incredible, too. But Mulder's attitude had been condescending, as if he were doing Alex a favor instead of inviting a sexual harassment claim by having sex with an underling. Worse, Mulder had had the temerity to blame Alex for his ethical lapse, as if he were some medieval witch hunter accusing a beautiful woman of 'enchanting' him because he couldn't keep his dick limp in her presence. 

 

Alex had put up with Mulder's bull shit because Mulder was his assignment, the good sex had been an unfortunate perk of the job --unfortunate, because after Alex's cover had been blown his lust had turned into a full-out obsession --until their misadventures in Russia, that is. Mulder had been such a total shit during that fiasco, Alex had told him to never touch him again. 

 

Alex had even wished Mulder a snide 'do svedanya' when he had managed to wrangle an audience with the camp commandant. He hadn't known whether he could get Mulder out of the camp, as he had promised, but he knew he had a pretty good chance of getting himself out, because he was a dead ringer for his older brother Vassily, who just happened to be a major in the Russian Army. 

 

Alex had been prepared to leave Mulder in the camp if he couldn't persuade the camp commandant to release him --Alex was a survivor, above all else-- but he *had* been *planning* to *try* to rescue Mulder. Trust Mulder to bollix it all by escaping on his own --then blame Alex for their being captured in the first place, like Alex had been the one pulling strings to get them into the country! //Delusional son of a bitch.// Alex's 'betrayal' had been all the justification Mulder needed to break out the handcuffs and bully Alex into submission --yet Mulder still managed to emerge from the ordeal claiming that Alex was a master anipulator who had led Mulder into a Consortium trap to infect him with the black oil aliens. 

 

Alex sighed. If only he'd been female. That 'Samantha by proxy' magic always seemed to work in Scully's favor. If only he'd had the right equipment between his legs. Alas, for frank and beans. On the other hand, if he hadn't fallen out with Mulder, he'd have never gotten involved with Walter, and Walter, he had to admit, despite his initial skepticism, was the best thing that had ever happened to him. 

 

Looking back at his recent incarceration from the perspective of his newly won freedom, it seemed to Alex that he had been given a gift: a respite from the alien war. As cruel as the gift had been, without it, he would never have understood how vital his involvement with Walter had become to his peace of mind. He was seeing his circumstances and his choices with a clarity only long reflection could bring. He hadn't been able to indulge in that kind of introspection in the midst of the daily crises that had made up his life. So, in a perverse sort of way, he owed Spender a debt for the insight he'd gained.

 

Thinking about the irony of it all reminded him of one of his last nights at home. Papa had sold the furniture, by then, so he and his three brothers, Vassily, nine; Viktor, five, and Volodny, barely a year, were sleeping on a quilt laid out on the bare wooden floor of his and Viktor's room, despite the fact that Viktor was sick with, Alex suspected, whatever had killed his mother. They had their pillows, and pair of blankets to keep them warm, and Viktor, his dearest brother, had taken the spot next to Vassily, so that Alex, (who had been 'Valery,' back then), wouldn't have to, because Vassily liked to punch them.

 

Alex had turned to cuddle Volodny, whom he always thought of as 'Mikey,' now, and Viktor, in turn, had spooned up behind Alex, soothing him with a whispered: "It'll be all right, Val, you'll see. It will all work out in the end." 

 

It hadn't been too long after that that their father had sold Alex and Mikey and Vassily to the Arntzen Academy, a covert ops 'school' that rigorously trained its cadets to accept any deprivation and degradation, including prostitution, in the name of survival. 

 

At the time, it had seemed a fate worse than death, but, in fact, it had been that very training that had saved his life too many times to count. So, while Alex had been waiting twenty-seven years for it all to work out, until very recently, he hadn't thought the outcome looked very rosy. *Now*: //It must be getting close to the end, Viktor,// he thought, //because things are starting to work out.// The thought put a smile on his face, and, despite mental pictures of a writhing, sex-crazed Walter dancing in his head, Alex was finally able to drift off to sleep.

 

#


	5. Chapter 5

#

CHAPTER FIVE

#

"Grant graciously what you cannot refuse safely, and conciliate those you cannot conquer." --Colton 

#

Private Air Field, Oregon

Monday, May 28th

#

 

Alex's only prospective helicopter pilot turned dismissive when he found out where Alex wanted to go. "You apparently haven't heard the news. The Navy has thrown a temporary no-fly zone around the area. I'm neither a smuggler nor a dare devil. I don't make my living getting shot at, and I won't risk my life, my license, or my business circumventing the law. I'm a legitimate pilot, and I want to continue making my living as a pilot, know what I mean?"

 

"Can I --*may* I use your phone?" Alex asked, correcting himself as an image of a burly Assistant Director in 'schoolmarm' mode flashed over his mind's eye.

 

"Is it a local call?"

 

Alex sighed. He carefully took a fiver out of his wallet and smoothed it onto the pilot's desk. "No. Take a fiver for your trouble. Now, may I?"

 

The pilot pocketed the bill. "Knock yerself out."

 

Alex called the Navy liaison on the phone. With a relayed I.D. and code word, he received permission to cross the no-fly zone. He even had the man fax the waiver to the pilot's office. This impressed the pilot no end --not enough to give Alex a break on the fee, but, still, he was bowing and scraping and solicitous as all get out the rest of their time together.

 

It was a short hop by helicopter to the coordinates Alex had recorded. From there, it was a long day of hanging out the side of the helicopter, his brand new pair of binoculars glued to his face, as they hovered just far enough above tree-top level to dis-place the branches enough to get a peek beneath the canopy, but not enough to send them whipping around in a blurry frenzy. It took three hours of searching, but Alex was finally convinced he had discovered the flight path of the alien craft, just prior to its 'crash.' He had the pilot hover in position while he took a GPS reading of the exact spot where the trace evidence disappeared, then he had the pilot fly them back to the airport.

 

He had a late lunch/early dinner at the airport lounge, then headed back to Bellefleur. By the time he got back to the motel, it was dark, so he drove to the nearest market and bought some supplies for his planned hike, then he returned to the motel and settled in for the night, ordering delivery pizza for supper. 

 

The next morning, well before dawn, he changed into his hiking gear, packed his knapsack with his first aid kit, water, candy bars, jerkey, gorp, a rain poncho, a flashlight, and his emergency survival kit, then he drove to a spot a mile farther up the road than the deputy's last known position, so the authorities --and Mulder-- wouldn't see it if they happened along, and, with GPS in hand, set off for the coordinates he had marked on his map. 

 

A quarter mile before he reached the GPS coordinates, he was brought up short by an energy field that shook him like a gin martini then dumped him, somewhat worse for wear, onto the ground. 

 

When he recovered, he pulled back the glove on his prosthesis, to give himself access to his wristwatch. It looked like any other sports type watch, a little worn, but serviceable. It was actually a little James Bond type gizmo he had gotten from the Resistance Aliens for just such an occasion. He pulled the stem out, twisted it till the minute hand hit '3', then pulled the stem out even further. Tug, tug, tug. An ultrasonic signal began to beep from the tiny transmitter inside the casing. 

 

Inside five minutes, one of the alien crew stepped out of the barrier and looked him over. Rather than one of the faceless ones, it looked like a normal bounty hunting, shape-shifting grey in human form. "You are Krycek?" it asked.

 

"One of them," Alex confirmed. His answer seemed to confuse the being. 

 

"You are the silo Krycek?"

 

"The one and only," Krycek confirmed.

 

"How did you know we were here?"

 

"Old Smoky," Alex said, knowing the alien knew who he meant. "He heard about your crash. He sent a man in to find you. The man disappeared, so he sent me in."

 

The alien stood and stared at him without responding. Alex realized it was 'speaking' to the others aboard the ship. "We must talk at length," it finally said. "Come." It turned and went back through the barrier. 

 

Alex followed. It was like going through that 'stargate' thingie on TV, he decided. He definitely *felt* as if he'd been 'flushed sideways,' at any rate. Once through the shielding, Alex was able to see the ship. It was huge! As big as the ship in Antarctica. And it was jutting out of the earth on its rim. Which was a good thing for all the little woodland creatures --and probably the inhabitants of Bellefleur, as well, considering the crater and furrow a flat entry crash landing of a craft that size would have made. The word 'Tunguska' came to mind. Nobody would have had any trouble finding the ship, in that instance --of course, they'd probably have to dig it out of the ground, first. 

 

The alien led Alex to a hatch on the rim of the saucer, just above the insertion point. They entered the air lock, and --without spilling them-- it rotated ninety degrees --sideways-- to match the ship's current 'up-down.' The inside door opened, and they strolled out onto the deck as if nothing was amiss, all thanks to the ship's artificial gravity. 

 

This momentarily confused Alex, until he realized that, in space, there was no 'right-side-up.' The only true 'up-down' was the one you produced yourself --if you had the technology. (If not, you floated around aimlessly, like earth's astronauts.) Naturally, it only made sense that your air lock would be adjustable so you could accommodate to the 'up-down' of whatever ships you encountered, and that the ship's artificial gravity would be operational even in a planet's gravity well --unless it was damaged, of course. 

 

The alien led Alex to a bare walled room where about a dozen other aliens, in their natural 'grey alien' forms were standing around, apparently waiting for his arrival.

 

"Ah, Alex," one of the aliens greeted. Since they all looked and sounded alike to Alex, he had no idea where or whether he had ever met that particular alien before, or if he was only known to it by reputation. "I have been studying the information you gave to us concerning Dr. Orgel's nanocytes. They are quite intriguing, with much potential as an anti-oilien agent."

 

"Glad to hear it. Spender wants the fetus back."

 

They all shook their heads. "Hriitokep has been traumatized enough. We have freed him. We will not return him."

 

Alex shook his head. "I don't think you understand what I'm talking about. It's a dead fetus. Frozen. For like, fifty years?"

 

They looked at each other. "You thought Hriitokep was dead?"

 

Alex felt a definite creep crawl up his spine. "Well....yeah! Come on, guys! It was frozen in liquid nitrogen. It had to be dead!"

 

They fell to talking amongst themselves, totally ignoring him. Finally, the one who had first addressed him spoke again. "Have you ever seen Hriitokep?"

 

"Uh..., once. Kinda. Briefly. From outside the cold storage room," he admitted. Enough to know it existed. "Why?"

 

"Ah, then it would not have occurred to you to wonder how, after fifty years of being used as source material for the human scientists, it was still wholly intact?"

 

Alex paused. As they had surmised, he hadn't been able to study the fetus close up. "Well...if they were just scraping off bits of it, it wouldn't have sustained much visible damage. I mean, it doesn't take much tissue to get a good DNA sample, right? A swab of the cheek, and you've got enough material to cross and match." 

 

"Now, yes. Back when your scientists began their tests...not at all. We know you understand what it is to lose a limb. Now, imagine losing that limb over and over again. Along with many other parts of you."

 

Alex shook his head more vigorously. "But-- it's dead. It can't feel."

 

They shook their heads as vigorously back. "No, it was rendered dormant by the freezing process, but Hriitokep is not dead. He was still able to regenerate, and thus, to feel." 

 

Alex paled. "But...how could it have possibly survived for fifty years without food and air? And, if it was alive, why didn't it grow?"

 

"The freezing process, of course. It took all Hriitokep's resources to remain alive, so it had no energy left to grow, and it used the nitrogen for air and sustenance both, absorbing it through the skin, not unlike some earthly species of hibernating frogs and fish."

 

Alex felt sick. He looked around the room, but there was no trash, no receptacles of any kind. In fact, he couldn't even find the door, any more. He sucked in air, hoping to stave off his nausea. "But-- but surely-- the scientists --they would have figured out that something dead couldn't regenerate, right? I mean...shit! Dead things don't regenerate! Unless...they were told it was dead, and they believed because they needed to, because it was alien, and aliens are different, so it might be possible.... Most of them didn't have direct access. Maybe they thought it was a different fetus every time." Maybe. That *might* excuse the scientists --but *someone* had to know better. They *had* to. Didn't they? He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, fighting the urge to hurl. "'A man sees what he wants to see, and disregards the rest.'" he said, reciting an appropriate scrap of verse from Paul Simon's 'The Boxer.' 

 

The aliens watched him, discussing his distress telepathically. "This explains much. We are satisfied with your explanation of how your scientists could fail to understand Hriitokep's condition." 

 

"I'm glad that you can be so forgiving," Alex said when he could open his eyes again, quite aware that, on the whole, the aliens had a low opinion of humans. The last thing the aliens needed was one more reason to hate, distrust, and disdain the human race. They already thought nothing of killing any human who got in their way, and they tended to kill 'polluted' humans, their name for abductees and those who had hosted an oilien --like himself-- on sight. 

 

It was only Alex's seemingly high position in the Consortium, a misconception established by reports of the lengths the foo fighter olien had taken to possess him --travelling half way around the world to gain the bargaining chip it needed to reclaim its ship-- added to the fact that, of all the Consortium members, only Alex and the Brit, Ellis Brind-Hythe, had sought an alliance with the Resistance aliens after their agent-infiltrator had broached the subject during an Elders' council to which Alex had been a participant, that kept the aliens from killing him out of hand, even now. 

 

Luckily, he had established Resistance contacts with other aliens besides the disguised 'Elder', because subsequent circumstances had forced Alex to plam the infiltrator in order to save Jeffery Spender's life. Just as fortunately, the Resistance aliens had understood the necessity of his actions, and hadn't held it against him --so far. 

 

They'd even lent him a shape-shifter to impersonate Jeffery Spender, whom his father had maneuvered into the X-Files in Mulder's place, so that Alex could have 'Jeffery' resign in favor of reinstating Mulder and Scully to the X-Files. Imagine Alex's surprise when Spender Sr. 'assassinated' his bogus Jeffery in full view of one of Alex's X-Files office surveillance cameras. 

 

Alex, who had trussed Jeffery up while his doppelganger was making life-altering decisions for the sad sack F.B.I. agent, managed to paint himself as Jeffery's savior by playing the tape of 'Jeffery's' assassination to his captive, as if saving his life had been his agenda all along. He further managed to persuade the younger Spender to drop out of sight and work for him. Jeffery was, at this very moment, stashed away in one of Alex's safe houses making himself useful as only a former member of the F.B.I. could. 

 

Spender Sr., in the meantime, had escaped the toxic gas his slug had unleashed and had gone to ground in one of his many bolt holes, there to ponder fate and worry about when, precisely, the rebels had switched 'sons' on him. Alex could only --gleefully-- imagine the chaos and rampant paranoia that followed. 

 

All in all, the entire incident had worked to Alex's advantage on many --very satisfying-- levels. 

 

To have the aliens actually vocalize their understanding of how the humans' could torture one of their own for half a century without being truly culpable, seemed like a quantum leap in inter-species relations. Too bad he couldn't just let the subject drop. "Forget about the fetus, then! How about some skin samples, or some other kind of really dead but otherwise useful tissue?"

 

"Do you really want Spender to continue his projects?"

 

"Yes!" Alex affirmed. "Until *somebody* finds a way to stop the oiliens dead in their tracks, I want every available resource in the world working on a solution! Why do you think I gave you Dr. Orgel's research? We have a saying on our planet: 'many hands make light work.' And 'two heads are better than one.' Um, that's why I'll need enough DNA samples to distribute to all my sources."

 

"We will consider the matter," one of the aliens said. "But you must be patient. Truly dead tissue dissolves in an oxygen atmosphere. That is the reason Hriitokep was given to your scientists in the first place."

 

"Oh." //Of course,// Alex thought, as images of dissolving aliens ran through his mind's eye. //The light dawns.// "Ick. Fine, whatever," Alex said. Another thing he had learned about the aliens: it was best not to rush them. 

 

"Now, in regard to the matter of Dr. Orgel's research," the alien continued, "we need your control device and a sufficient quantity of the nanocytes with which to conduct further research. Can you provide us with these things?"

 

An alarm began ringing in Alex's brain. If these were, in fact, Resistance Aliens, there would be no repercussions to him or Walter if he did, in fact, turn over the requested materials. If, on the other hand, these were actually colonist aliens, the ones in league with the oiliens, pretending to be Resistance Aliens, then turning over the requested materials might be the same as handing the controls over to Smoky himself. 

 

Luckily, Alex didn't have the palm pilot on him. He told the aliens as much. "And how much constitutes 'enough nanocytes'?" he asked.

 

"Ten cubic centimeters in solution should do nicely," the alien said. 

 

"I'll have to consult with the carrier, first. If he has no objections, I'll see you get your sample," Alex promised. "As to other matters, I read in the local paper that several people have gone missing, lately. All former colonist abductees --except for Spender's man, that is. You didn't kill them all, did you?"

 

"No. We took action against two humans to protect the location of our ship," another alien said. "We merely abducted the other humans, because of a project we are conducting. It is why we were in the area in the first place."

 

"And this project would be...?" Alex prompted. 

 

"A sort of corporeal Defense Early Warning system," the chatterbox of the group said cheerfully. 

 

"How's that work?" Alex asked with genuine curiosity.

 

"Well, as you know, many humans are 'artifact sensitive.' Their brain waves are altered when they are in proximity to certain cosmic radiation arrays peculiar to the oilien's ships. It activates that area of their brains Mulder has dubbed 'The God Module.' We thought that, with a few modifications, we could mutate any humans displaying the brain wave patterns of a sensitive so that they would be able to recognize --within a certain proximity, any life form which was currently hosting an oilien."

 

"No shit?" Alex exclaimed. "That would be a useful talent." And would be of benefit exclusively to the humans, since the aliens had no problem discerning carriers on their own.

 

"We thought so," the alien concurred. 

 

"So, why haven't you grabbed up Mulder? He's 'artifact sensitive.'"

 

"The brain operation he underwent excised his 'God Module,'" one of the other aliens said. "And since that is the portion of the brain we need to activate and train...well...."

 

Alex nodded. "But, you could fix him, right? Mend him and reactivate it?"

 

"The brain is a delicate mechanism. We could not guarantee success in such an endeavor."

 

"It wouldn't kill him if you tried, though, would it?" Alex asked.

 

There was a pause for a silent consultation. "Probably not," the alien finally answered. "Although there is a use we could put him to in connection with the Orgel project without the need for such delicate manipulations."

 

"Which is?"

 

"We need subjects who have hosted an oilien on which to test our reprogrammed nanocytes. You would be a useful test subject as well, Alex from the silo."

 

Alex gulped. "You'll pardon me if that news doesn't thrill me. In fact, I'd object to your using Mulder in that capacity, as well. After it's perfected, maybe. Not before."

 

"You realize that necessitates our infecting innocent humans with olien components in order to conduct the research?"

 

Alex refrained from mentioning that if they hadn't been so happy with the flame throwers they would have had plenty of test subjects to use. "Yeah. Still and all, better them than me --and Mulder is a special case --no one harms him."

 

"Very well. You are quite useful, for a human. Although, Mulder...."

 

"Would be more useful as a live DEW human than a dead test subject," Alex insisted. He may not be in love with Mulder, at least, not as desperately, but, despite Mulder's total disdain of Alex and his all around short-sightedness and procedural incompetence where the Consortium was concerned, Alex still did not wish him ill. "You ought to snag him while he's in the area. I mean, the more humans you can turn into oilien host detectors the better, right?" 

 

"You speak truly. Unfortunately, the matter is out of our hands," the alien said, shrugging its scrawny shoulders, "for Mulder has already left the area."

 

"Left?" That didn't sound like Mulder. "Before he found the ship?"

 

"He was worried about his partner's condition," yet another of the indistinguishable group added.

 

"For good reason," another said.

 

"Oh? She sick again?" Alex asked.

 

"Oh, no, not sick."

 

"Worse than sick," the first said. 

 

"Pregnant," the second clarified.

 

"With a project fetus," the third added.

 

"A hybrid baby? In Scully? How? Was she abducted again? Couldn't be, Walter would surely have mentioned it," Alex muttered. 

 

"Artificial insemination," the first said. "Through one of the Consortium's doctors. He operates a popular fertility clinic in Baltimore. They've impregnated otherwise infertile women by the score, hoping they will carry the hybrids to term. Not many have, but enough for them to keep trying."

 

"They think they will succeed in Scully's case, because they are using her own ovum." 

 

"Damn. Whose kid does she think she's carrying?"

 

"Mulder's. Apparently, he made a sperm donation to the clinic on her behalf."

 

"Wow! Knock me over with a feather!" He leaned against the wall and rubbed his face. Scully must have been desperate to be become a mommy to chance excommunication by using Catholic disapproved in vitro fertilization --and to use Mulder's sperm. She had to know how polluted he was, to use the alien's terminology. On the other hand, given her own 'polluted' state, she probably figured he was her best chance for a viable match. 

 

"I never figured her for the 'ticking biological clock' type," he confessed. It would devastate her to give birth to a hybrid. To have pinned all her hopes on having a child, and end up being screwed yet again by the Consortium. The more Alex thought about the ramifications of Scully's giving birth to a hybrid, the less it appealed. All he needed were *two* loose cannons in the X-Files office. "How long are the repairs to the ship going to take?"

 

"Another week, at least," the alien who had met him outside the shield wall said.

 

"Good. If I could lure Mulder back so you could grab him up, would you be able to take a sperm sample and create a normal human child --and keep it alive in vitro until I could arrange to exchange it with Scully's hybrid fetus? Would you, in fact, be able to exchange the fetus' without endangering either the mother or child's life --without her knowledge?"

 

"Of course," one said nonchalantly. "It is how we have had to breed for centuries. We will need at least one of her oocytes if the fetus is to be a precise duplicate, however."

 

"Oocytes?" Krycek echoed stupidly.

 

"Her unripened eggs."

 

"Oh. OK. Great. There should be left-over oocytes at the clinic, shouldn't there? I mean, they wouldn't have used all of them to make the hybrid, would they?"

 

"It's doubtful. Just like us, they would have to have ripened the oocytes into ova before they could fertilize them. It is difficult to store ripe ova, so, they shouldn't have ripened more than six for each fertilization attempt."

 

"Great. I'll steal her oocytes, then, and bring them back with Mulder."

 

"You will need special containers for them, and the nanocyte blood sample. We will provide them. What should we do with the hybrid fetus once the exchange has been made?" 

 

"Uh, whatever you see fit," he told them. "I'll make sure the fertility doctor never has a chance to raise Consortium suspicions."

 

"Very well. We shall await your return with the oocytes and Mulder, as well as the control device and nanocyte samples, in exchange, we will provide you with usable samples of our DNA and agree to mature a human fetus from Mulder's sperm and Scully's ovum. We will even match the fetus to Scully's hybrid developmentally, so that the exchange will not raise her suspicions or give her any physical cause for alarm."

 

"Deal," Alex agreed. Now all he had to do was figure out what he was going to tell Spender. And Walter.

 

#


	6. Chapter 6

#

CHAPTER SIX

#

"Fear is the instructor of great sagacity, and the herald of all revolutions." - Emerson, 'Compensation', *Essays, First Series* 

#

Washington, D.C. 

Tuesday, May 29th

#

 

In the end, Alex decided not to tell Spender a thing. If it had all been an elaborate trap to possess a control device that no longer mattered to the two lovers in and of itself, but might destroy their relationship, or get either or both of them killed in anyone else's hands, Alex decided that, whoever's hands they ended up being in, they wouldn't belong to Spender. 

 

He snuck into D.C on the next available flight. He had a lot to do before he 'officially' arrived, and he had to do it fast. The first thing he needed was the name and location of Scully's fertility clinic. 

 

He drove over to Scully's, made sure she was out, then let himself in and rifled through her efficiently organized desk drawers until he found an appointment card with the doctor's name and clinic phone number. He called them and asked their address, which they happily supplied.

 

Alex replaced everything exactly as he'd found it, made a stop at his storage locker to pick up some needed spyware, then drove to the clinic and waited until it shut down for the night, then he let himself in and went through the nurse's files, looking for Scully's charts. He copied them with a handy microfilm spy camera. The files gave him the code number on the tube of oocytes. He nosed around till he found the freezers, then looked for the tube of Scully's left-over oocytes.

 

Once he found it, he slipped it into the special carrier provided by the aliens. It was a portable freezer the size of a soda can. The vial for Walter's blood was more the size of a cigar tube, because it didn't need to be frozen.

 

Once Alex had the oocytes, he went through the facility looking for usable information. He found a room of aborted fetuses, all looking sinister in their non-humanness, and took a roll of pictures, group and close-ups. He noted the numbers on the jars holding them, and went back to look up those patients and snapped their files, as well. Then he broke into the Doctor's private files and looked for a project overview document that would damn him and copied it, as well as some abnormal x-ray photos and the W-4 files of all the clinic's employees. Then he stole the office computers' back-up disks back to March and, satisfied that he had gotten enough evidence, he set off the overhead sprinklers. That done, he raced back to his car and waited for the fire department to arrive. 

 

Once the firemen started banging at the door with their hatchet's, he started up the car and drove off. With any luck, no one would notice the missing items, and, if they did notice, they would chalk it up to water damage or the chaos of the firemen responding to the sprinkler system's automatic fire alarm. 

 

He would have loved to have destroyed the facility outright --there were plenty of hate groups he could have pinned the crime on, but he couldn't chance Dana's going to a legitimate obstetrician. One look at that alien baby inside her, and a real doctor would recommend an amniocentesis, and who knows what all Hell would break loose then? Scully --and the rest of the host mothers--

might be in danger of being abducted for the duration, or worse, killed.

 

Once Alex was in a neutral area he phoned Spender's number. Marita answered. "Hello?"

 

"I'm back," Alex drawled. "I spent days hiking the wilds, but I didn't find the ship, so I decided to snoop on Mulder --only to discover he'd taken a powder. I figured, if Mulder's come back, there's no need for me to stay, I mean, considering how rabid he is about finding UFOs, if there was a ship there, he would have had to have been removed bodily. No way in Hell there's a ship in the area."

 

Marita passed the news along to Spender, who apparently didn't handle the news well. His was the next voice Alex heard.

 

"Alex...." The old man said, a wealth of pain and disappointment in his tone. 

 

"It's late. I'm getting a room and a meal on you," Alex informed his wheezing meal ticket. "I'll pay for the whore out of pocket, though." He smirked as if the old man could see him. 

 

"We have to talk--"

 

"--Tomorrow," Alex insisted. He hung up without waiting for what Spender had to say, and called Walter, who was, as per usual, still at the office. "I need to see you," he said.

 

Something in his tone must have alerted Skinner to the urgency of the situation, because all he said was: "I'm on my way."

 

"Meet me at Sperry's, I'll reserve a table for party of Dalton," he said. It was a well known local haunt, a mid-priced steak joint mid-way between their respective locations popular enough to be open all night, but not so popular it required reservations in advance.

 

"OK."

 

That was all. They hung up. Alex called information for the restaurant's number, and made reservations for his alias. He made sure they got one of the back corner booths. The backs of the banquettes were tall enough to hide Shaquille O'Neal, and the tables were lit with dim candles. There were no windows, and they were shielded from the neighboring banquettes by the those high backs, which made the corner tables look like a dead end in a boxwood hedge maze. Once they were situated, only the waitresses would be able to see who was sitting at their table. They were as private as wide open, public accommodations got in D.C.

 

Alex sat in his car with the heater on high, slowly drying off while he watched the entrance. When Walter went in, he waited five more minutes, to let him get seated, then he went inside and joined him. Just the thought of seeing Walter again gave Alex a hard on but, hopefully, his erection impeded gait wasn't all that noticeable. Either that, or the restaurant was hosting and employing the membership of the World Poker Players Association. Whatever the case, he managed to slide into his seat without any ado.

 

Walter, knowing Alex, had taken the side of the u-shaped banquette which would have given him a view of the back wall if the banquette hadn't been so high he couldn't see over it standing, let alone sitting, leaving Alex the side that was against the back wall. Sitting with his back to a wall was the only time Alex could relax in public. Not that he felt very relaxed when his penis was practically bursting his zipper in an attempt to say 'hello' to Walter.

 

Alex forced himself to focus on the menu, telling himself that the sooner he ordered, the sooner he'd have Walter all to himself. They both ordered the two-inch thick, rib eye steak, medium rare. They cooked over an open wood fire at Sperry's. Mesquite. It didn't get any better than that.

 

Walter finished his order with a jacketed baked potato with butter, sour cream, and chives, ember grilled corn on the cob in husk, barbecued beans, and a double scotch, while Alex ordered a Waldorf salad, grilled mixed vegetables, fried onion blossom, a pina colada, and brownie ala mode with chocolate syrup drizzled on top for dessert. 

 

As soon as they had a minute alone, Alex began filling Walter in on the pertinent details: that he had found the ship, that they seemed to be rebel aliens who were in the area to abduct humans with very particular latent talents and convert them into oilien possessed human detectors. 

 

He told Walter about giving the rebel aliens Dr. Orgel's research on nanocytes, and their plans to use them to render the oiliens helpless in a host body, but that, in order to progress their research, they would need a sample of Walter's blood with active nanocytes in it, and the control device. 

 

He told Walter that he was probably being paranoid, but, because of the way the aliens looked, and because they had asked for the control device, they might not be the actual Resistance Aliens, but colonists pretending to be rebels, possibly so Spender could get a hold of the palm pilot and reclaim control of Walter. Unfortunately, there was too much at stake for Alex to blow the aliens off. If they were legit, it could be the turning point in the war, so he had to give them what they asked for. He promised that he would try to make a duplicate control device and leave it with Walter, just in case it *was* a trick, because there was no way he would put Walter at risk without trying to develop a contingency plan. 

 

Of course, it was also possible his paranoia had another source, because the aliens had mentioned that he and Mulder would make perfect test subjects for this proposed nanocyte project of theirs, and, knowing how their minds worked, added to their dismissive and disdainful attitudes about humans who had been infected with an oilien, there was a chance they would decide to use them for test subjects, despite their assurances that they would leave both he and Mulder alone.

 

He didn't mention Scully's pregnancy, or that he was supposed to get Mulder back to the site so the aliens could heal and transform him into a detector. Instead, he let Skinner think his sole reason for getting Mulder to go back to Oregon was so he would have an excuse to go back himself and deliver the sample nanocytes without raising Spender's suspicions.

 

Walter almost lost his appetite when Alex briefed him. In the end, though, he agreed with Alex. They had to take the chance and risk giving the aliens the nanocytes. "Are you done eating? How about we take this back to my place?" Walter ventured.

 

Alex grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."

 

Walter smiled wanly. He doubted Alex would have been so sanguine about spending the night if he knew it was because Walter felt like Saigon was falling all over again and he needed a last night together to see him through what he expected to be --yet another-- long, hard separation. "See you at home, then," he said. He left the table, leaving Alex to flag down the waitress and pay the check with his Dalton credit card.

 

Alex didn't mind being stuck with the check, on the contrary, not only would it gouge a few more dollars out of Spender's account, it would give Walter a margin of time to get to his place before him. Alex didn't want to leave so soon after Walter that he may as well have tailed him home. He just wanted to be close enough behind so that Walter wouldn't get antsy waiting to buzz him into the condo complex.

 

As it was, Walter had a scotch in his hand when Alex came inside. Alex frowned at it, then took it from him, setting it on the nearest flat surface. "Too much alcohol makes Sergei a dull boy," he said. "How about a bath before bed? I'll wash your back for you," he said enticingly. 

 

"Val," Walter said familiarly, "if this is --has it been-- I know it hasn't been that long since you were here, last, but, I was wondering...--is it OK with you if I-- can I fuck you?" Walter finally blurted out indelicately.

 

Alex smiled like a predatory cat. "What say I do you, then you do me?"

 

Walter smiled. "I'd say: sounds like a plan. If I went first, I'd probably fall asleep on you."

 

"You'll probably fall asleep on me, anyway," Alex smiled. "Just as long as it isn't in the tub."

 

"Hmm. You'll just have to make sure I don't get too comfortable, then, won't you?" Walter smirked.

 

"Plan on it," Alex promised, then he slapped Walter's ass. "Now, get that cute ass of yours upstairs and start that bath."

 

"Arr," Walter acknowledged in his best pirate voice. "Come help me cast off, matey."

 

Alex trailed Walter up the stairs and into his bedroom. He let Walter secure his weapon and hang up his suit so it wouldn't get wrinkled. Then he helped him peel off the rest of his clothes. It took longer that way, but Alex enjoyed undressing Walter. It was like unwrapping a present. 

 

When Walter was stripped bare, he embraced Alex and gave him a probing kiss before heading into the en suite bathroom to start filling the whirlpool tub, giving Alex privacy to deal with his own clothes. 

 

By the time Alex came into the bathroom, Walter was already immersed and fiddling with the jets. 

 

Alex stepped in behind Walter and settled into the bubbling water. "Hmm..., nice," he murmured. "Not too hot, not too cold. Guess that makes you baby bear," he smirked. He grabbed a wash cloth and lathered it up, then began foaming a circle of suds onto Walter's broad back. Then he drew a smiley face into it. 

 

"What are you sniggering about?" Walter asked.

 

"Nothing," Alex said innocently. 

 

"I'm not made of gossamer. Put a little muscle into it," Walter instructed.

 

"I can't: you're sitting on the access way," Alex jested as he wiggled a finger down Walter's crack.

 

"Alex," Walter groaned. "Wash me."

 

"Yes, master." Alex scrubbed away his work of art, then turned his attentions to each of Walter's arms before he snuggled in close to reach around to scrub Walter's chest. He circled the foamy cloth around each pec and Walter's bellybutton, then headed for points south, humming softly to himself. He transferred the cloth to his prosthetic hand, so he could lift Walter's penis without crushing it. He knew Walter would appreciate the gesture, even if his 'scrubbing' became a little rough and imprecise. 

 

Walter did appreciate the gesture, and he showed it, proudly. Alex thrilled as his fingers felt the throbbing pulse of blood swell Walter's organ to its impressive zenith. He played with his newly inflated tub toy until Walter moaned, then, after briefly noodling the heavy balls beneath it, Alex abruptly leaned back, chortling gleefully at Walter's distressed wail at being so rudely abandoned. 

 

"Cock tease," Walter panted as his painfully full erection began to subside.

 

"You need to turn around," Alex informed him, as if he hadn't heard. "I can't reach any further."

 

Walter grumbled, but did as instructed. Alex smiled and lifted one leg after the other, scrubbing each in turn with meticulous attention. He worked his way from the toes to the upper thighs, then, after a mere brush against Walter's vital organs, he handed Walter the cloth. "Your turn," he happily announced.

 

Walter's eyes flamed, but, after a moment's reflection, he resoaped the cloth and got to work. He soon had Alex giggling uncontrollably. Walter found the sound, which echoed slightly in the closed off tub, utterly delightful. He had never known Alex to laugh so freely. It was...nice. The thought made his stomach flutter with emotion. 

 

Visions of spending his days making Alex laugh, in a world free from aliens, and the Consortium, and any threats like Spender flitted over his mind's eye. It was very white picket fence-ish, but then, Alex had confided to him that he wanted the whole picket fence fantasy. Walter wanted it, too. He had lost sight of that over the last eight months, when worry and doubt had plagued his thoughts, but the fancy was back, full force. 

 

Now, as he thought back to the fishing trip they had taken at his backwoods cabin, he remembered the fishing, the sex, and the sheer simplicity and effortlessness of being together without a care. It wouldn't take much to get the place in shape as a permanent residence. Someplace off the beaten path, where run ins with Alex's past would be few and far between, and the troubles of an Assistant Director could be laid to a final rest. They could have a good life together. He knew it in his heart. If they survived. The thought made him hug Alex to his chest. 

 

He felt like a war bride, condemned to watch his soldier march off to the far side of the world where he would risk his life with no guarantee he would survive to return to the bosom of heart and home. 

 

It made Walter sad and desperate and sentimental, all at once. It also made him horny as hell. He reached down and tugged on Alex's penis, then used the wash cloth like a sex sleeve, pumping the lather and the nubby cloth over Alex's sensitive skin. 

 

Alex pulled away, raising himself out of the tub so he could rest his elbows against the tile rim. He looked back at Walter, wiggling his ass provocatively. "Wash my crack, Vlad. Wash it *good.*"

 

Walter scrubbed the crack, then let his lathered finger rim Alex's hole. He delved inside with one finger, then two, scissoring them to coax some water inside. 

 

Alex laughed at that. He stood and stepped onto the bath mat, grabbing something he'd left on the basin counter. It was a bulb syringe. He filled it with bath water, handed it to Walter, then turned and offered his ass. "Clean me out, Vlad."

 

Walter's hand shook as he inserted the nozzle into Alex's hole and squeezed. Alex smiled prettily at him as he straightened and swished the bulb clean. "Come on out, I'll towel you off."

 

Bath time was over, Walter realized, as his flagging erection swelled anew at Alex's provocative offer. He shut off the jets and let the bath tub drain, stepping out into the warm embrace of a heated bath towel. Alex scrubbed, then patted him dry. Then he sent him out to the bed while he finished preparing himself.

 

Walter heard the toilet flush as he turned the sheets down. He settled himself onto the middle of the bed. 

 

Alex emerged from the bathroom carrying a bottle of lube and a damp wash cloth, neatly folded into a quartered square, which he laid on a waiting mug warmer sitting on the headboard. That mission accomplished, he handed the lube to Walter and scampered onto the bed, snatching the nearest pillow. "Lift your hips, Bear."

 

Alex tucked the pillow under Walter's butt, then he held out his palm expectantly. Walter squeezed some lube onto Alex's palm. Alex applied the lube directly onto Walter's crack and massaged it in, teasing Walter's hole mercilessly. The lube warmed with the friction, and Walter's ass began to dance with Alex's expert attentions.

 

"Jesus Alex, just fuck me, will you?" Walter pleaded.

 

Beaming like Little Jack Horner, Alex threw Walter's legs over his shoulders and sank to his pubes in Walter's well-stretched hole. He wiggled his hips to tickle Walter's ass with his bush. 

 

Walter jerked. "Not funny!"

 

"Then why am I laughing?" Alex asked innocently. 

 

"Because you're cruel and unusual," Walter jibed.

 

Alex just wiggled his eyebrows and started pumping. He slapped Walter's hands whenever the A. D. reached for his own neglected penis. "None of that, greedy boy."

 

Alex knew he'd blissed his lover out when Walter began invoking the deity. This was only the second time Alex had been able to evoke this reaction, but he loved the way Walter looked when he lost control. A sudden swell of affection for the burly G-man flooded his heart. 

 

He hadn't thought himself capable of loving anybody after all the disastrous sex-capades he'd had during his lifetime. Between Major Arntzen and his thousand tricks, Raoul, Kevin, Kapustcha, and the delectably pouty Fox Mulder, it was a wonder he hadn't committed suicide, become a monk, or run screaming at the suggestion of anything more involved than a quick fuck in a sex club. His heart must be made of some pretty sturdy stuff, though, because he had managed to obsess over Mulder for years. 

 

Thanks to Walter, he had finally wised up to the futility of that liaison. In fact, he owed his relationship with Walter entirely to the older man's efforts. Alex had to admire a man who had the balls to not only pursue, but impulsively initiate his first ever act of oral sex on another male for his constitutionally guaranteed right to pursue happiness. 

 

Alex had been surprised, suspicious, and wary, at first, but Walter had never been anything but welcoming, respectful, accepting, and caring. And if there was one thing Alex had no defenses against, it was an earnest, heart-on-the-sleeve courter. 

 

Alex had craved affection and acceptance all his life. To be handed his heart's desire on a silver platter, and in such an appealing package, well, it was no wonder he melted at the very thought of his burly bear. It was that, more than anything else, which had lured Alex into Walter's bed again and again. Now, he got warm and fuzzy feelings whenever he thought about Skinner --and he was thinking about the man entirely too often. 

 

He even found himself dreaming of a future when the war was over, mankind had triumphed over the colonists, and he could reap the laurels and rewards of his good deeds at long last. He planned to retire in high fashion, happily ensconced in middle America with his beefy boy toy. Skinner had promised him a picket fence, if he would give up on Mulder and direct his attentions to a kindred soul. Alex had thought it was an empty promise at the time but, all the same, it was what he'd craved, so he had closed his eyes and pretended it was real. Now, he knew, if they could just manage to survive long enough, that Skinner would deliver on his promise and make him an 'honest man.'

 

It had been a long time coming, but Alex was finally willing to admit that Skinner was offering something he would never have gotten from Mulder: security and equality. He had always wanted to put down roots, to have one special place to call his own, a place with a solid, unmoving foundation, where he could integrate himself into the neighborhood, like normal people, and make love to the same person year after year, secure in the knowledge that that person loved him and wanted to be with him and him alone forever and ever. 

 

When he'd fallen for Mulder he had dreamed that he and Mulder could live that dream, but it had never felt right. Now, he realized, that in his heart of hearts he had known that his dream life with Mulder was just that: a dream. Mulder might have consented to buy that white picket fence, but he wouldn't have spent much time within its boundaries. The lure of the X-files would always supercede any other relationship in Mulder's life. He had never been a romantic, and he held his lovers at an emotional distance. Mulder's only true passion was for uncovering the mysteries of the world. It always had been, and it always would be. 

 

Walter, by contrast, had promised to give up the outer world and immerse himself in Alex's picket fence fantasy. And, now that he was allowing Alex to fuck him like an equal, Alex realized he had stumbled upon a treasure trove unlike any other he had ever found. Funny that it had taken a stint in a Tunisian prison for him to recognize the gold that was Walter's heart.

 

Alex grunted as he felt his orgasm building. He thrust into Walter with all his might, till the A.D. was howling for completion. Then Alex's orgasm struck. He beat his balls against Walter's ass as he spurted into Walter's hole once, trice, five times. Done. He pulled out and flopped onto the bed, pulling his legs up to offer his ass to Walter in turn. 

 

"You sure you're OK with this?" Walter asked, as he scooted around to position his weeping dick at Alex's already greased hole.

 

"Yes, Vlad. Come on: do it."

 

Walter needed no second invitation. He inched his huge foot-long erection up Alex's well used hole and leaned down to kiss his lover tenderly. Alex untensed, sucking at Walter's lips as if they held the key to eternal youth. He liked to have his nipples played with, so Walter diddled them, tweaked them, tugged and squeezed them. Alex moaned and squirmed and wrapped his legs around Walter's waist, inviting him deeper. 

 

A final bump, and Walter was seated in Alex's ass to the hilt. "Ah! So hot. So good. Hmmmm. I missed this." Walter began to thrust, in and out. He continued to probe Alex's mouth with his tongue. "So sweet. Never get enough." He shifted to lave Alex's nipples, then he started licking Alex's ears and neck.

 

Alex wet his index finger and made lazy patterns over Walter's chest. His eyes welled up suddenly, and Walter froze. "Did I hurt you?"

 

Alex laughed and shook his head. "No, Bear, I'm fine. I'm better than fine. Go on. Fuck me raw." He pursed his lips and Walter obligingly leaned down to kiss him. "Hmmm.... I was just thinking that you have to be the best thing that ever happened to me in my entire life," Alex confessed, inadvertently stopping Walter in his tracks once more. "I just wish this damned war was over. I don't want to leave you, ever again, but that's all I seem to do. You know, I've heard people say they wouldn't change any of the awful things that happened in their lives, because that's what made them them, and I never understood it, until now. When you think of all the things that had to happen to get me here with you, here and now...well...it boggles the imagination, you know? But I've never been happier in my life. And if that means I'd have to live it all over again to keep you, I'd do it. I mean it."

 

"Shit, Val! You're going to make me cry," Walter declared, misting up as threatened.

 

Alex kissed the tip of Walter's nose. "Then I guess I'll have to be like my old man and give you a reason to cry," Alex said, as he curled up and bit Walter's right nipple. Walter yelped, then growled.

 

"Oh, yeah? I think somebody needs their ass tanned."

 

"That's right! Punish me! Pound me through the mattress! Show me who's boss."

 

Walter grinned and starting pumping Alex's ass. "You're gonna feel like veal scallopini by the time I'm done with you." He began thrusting with all his might, eventually working Alex up the bed till his head started knocking on the headboard. 

 

"Hey! I bruise easy!" Alex complained.

 

Walter grinned like a fiend, grabbed Alex's hips, and drew him down the mattress with a grunt, then, still sheathed, he readjusted his knees and started pounding Alex's ass once more.

 

It didn't take long before he was arching back with the force of his orgasm. With a final kiss, he pulled out and flopped onto the bed beside his lover. "Oh, Christ! I haven't worked that hard in years."

 

Alex smiled. He relieved Walter of his condom, tossing it into the convenient bedside trash can. Then he retrieved the wash cloth, refolded it so the hot side and the cold side were both safely inside the folds, and washed them both down. 

 

Walter moaned contentedly. Alex toed up the blankets and covered them, snuggling close to bury his nose in Walter's furry chest. Walter threw an arm around his bedmate and kissed his nose. "I love you, too," he mumbled, and, with a final rumble, he started snoring.

 

Alex's eyes welled up again. He just closed them and went to sleep.

 

#


	7. Chapter 7

  
Author's notes: I spell Langley's name with an 'e' because that is how it is spelled in Virginia, site of the CIA's HQ. Since *MY* Langely is named after the CIA city, it is thus spelled like it.  


* * *

#

CHAPTER SEVEN

#

"There are some who bear a grudge even to those who do them good." --Pilpay

#

Spender's Apartment, The Watergate Arms, Washington, D.C.

Wednesday, May 30th

#

 

Alex was splayed over the sofa in a display of casual insouciance, but the only one he was annoying was Marita. Spender had tried bullying Alex into going back to Oregon, but Alex had sneered at him. 

 

"You're delusional, old man," he said. "Your information is bogus. You've lost your touch. You may as well die for all the good you're worth."

 

"People are still disappearing," Spender said defensively. "The aliens are there."

 

"You think Mulder would've left if there was a bona fide space ship anywhere within sniffing distance?" Alex countered with knowing sarcasm.

 

"He was only being cautious, out of concern for his partner," Spender said. It was obvious he'd had a report from his spies in the Bureau.

 

Alex snorted. "Concerned enough to drop an investigation on a UFO? In which alternate reality?" 

 

Spender inclined his head. It was true that being concerned for anything but his quest was novel behavior for Mulder. But..."Circumstances are somewhat...different in this case," he wheezed. "It is not merely that Scully is sick, it's that she is sick because she is pregnant with Mulder's child."

 

Alex coughed, pretending disbelief. "Didn't you guys spay that bitch years back?" 

 

"Ah..., well," Spender confessed. "she's been using a fertility doctor, her own ova, which Mulder recovered for her, and Mulder's, uh, genetic donations, in order to become pregnant. Apparently, she's succeeded." He smiled with all the warmth of a hooded cobra.

 

"Uh-huh. And Mulder cares because...?"

 

"Oh, really, Alex!" Spender retorted testily, losing patience with the froward agent. "Fatherhood has been known to melt the hearts of the hardest of men."

 

"Huh! Couldn't prove it by me --or you."

 

"Be that as it may, Mulder seems to have become quite...paternal. Truth be told, if I'd known he could be that easily distracted, I'd have arranged for him to have had children decades ago. Now that he has gotten Scully back into the hands of experts, however, he should be more amenable to returning to Oregon and searching out the craft," Spender confided.

 

"OK, fine," Alex conceded, throwing up his hands. "If Mulder goes back to Bellefleur, I will, too."

 

"Unfortunately, it won't be that easy. He's having budgetary problems, at the moment. Seems his department is a tad in the red. You'll need to persuade Mr. Skinner to find the money in another department and divert it to the X-Files, then OK another 302 on Mulder's behalf." 

 

Alex grinned and rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Finally! The fun begins." 

 

Spender coughed, the closest he could get to a spontaneous snort of his own. "You have an over developed malicious streak in you, Alex, my boy." 

 

Alex smirked. "Yeah. You'd do well to keep that in mind, old man."

 

"Marita, why don't you keep Alex company this trip?" Spender suggested.

 

"I don't need a keeper," Alex snarled.

 

"It isn't your call to make, " Spender insisted.

 

Alex jumped up and stalked to the door. "Fine! Have it your way." He glared at Marita, who sprang to his side after a glance from Spender, then slammed out of the apartment, Marita on his heels. In fact, Alex was secretly thrilled that Marita was coming along. It would give him an opportunity to find out where her true loyalties --if she had any-- lay. 

 

Alex insisted they take his rental rather than Marita's car. That was because he was sure his rental wasn't bugged. To ensure it stayed that way, he had parked it in a well watched parking lot four blocks from Spender's hotel, placed tell-tales all around it, and gave the parking attendant a fifty dollar 'tip' to keep an eye on it. He was confident that, with all his precautions, he'd know if so much as a gnat landed on the windshield.

 

Once they were under way, he took a breath. "So..., how long are you planning to play the cowed suck-up?"

 

Marita looked as if he'd slapped her. "What do you mean?"

 

"I mean: you were more than willing to play the angles before your stint as guinea pig-for-a-day, you still working the angles?"

 

"No."

 

"Lost your nerve? Or just your contacts?"

 

"Maybe I'm just grateful to be able to be living in the real world instead of a laboratory."

 

"So...a little quid pro quo with the Old Man wouldn't interest you?"

 

"He made himself a test subject and it's killing him. That's poetic enough for me."

 

"Really? 'Cause it ain't even close in my book."

 

"What are you saying? Bottom line," Marita asked.

 

"I never realized you were the bottom type," Alex leered.

 

"Just tell me who you're gunning for: just Smoky, or Smoky and the rest of the Consortium."

 

"Huh! The Consortium is like a cockroach. We're never going to see the end of them."

 

"So...if all you want is Smoky, why didn't you just take him out when you got back into town?"

 

"Frankly, I've lost my taste for world domination, and having to head up what's left of the organization's soldiers would be a royal pain --which is what I'd have to do in order to keep my head attached to my shoulders if I just took out Spender and left the Elders twisting in the wind. On the other hand...if I had somebody all lined up to take the reins in Smoky's place...well, that would make everybody happy --or, at least, happy enough to leave me the Hell alone. 

 

"So, what'd'ya say, Blondie? Better you than any of the other candidates I know," Alex confessed. "Who knows, we might even be able to do business with one another again. Like, say, if I do manage to get my hands on some alien DNA from the so called 'crash-site,' you could ensure it gets into the proper hands. Think of it as readjusting your minions' priorities as you tour your new 'queendom' to secure the fealty of your liege lords."

 

"Which 'liege lords' would these be, the collaborators or the resistance?"

 

"All of them. Even the ones you were screwing me for in order to get Dimitri."

 

"Why?"

 

"Why what?" Alex asked.

 

"Why any of it? Why take out Morley? Why not try to destroy what's left of the Consortium? Why try to get samples of alien DNA? Why want to give it to everybody --even people whose agenda you don't know? Why do you think I'd be interested in grabbing the reins of power?"

 

"Why Morley? Because he tried to blow me up, kill me slowly in a silo, and left me to rot in Tunisia for eight months. 

 

"Why now? Because everyone who had any influence over me who told me I couldn't is dead. 

 

"Why leave the remnants of the Consortium operational? Because I like to keep all my options open. 

 

"Why not grab the power for myself? I haven't got the connections to make it work over the long haul, and I don't have the patience to cultivate them. And, if I did have the patience, I'd have to keep Cancer Man alive while I built up my own organization in preparation to taking over, and frankly, I don't want the bastard to die a natural death while I'm out brown-nosing some other wrinkly pain-in-the-ass just so I can take on a shit-load of headaches in Smoky's place. 

 

"Why give the DNA to everybody, even people I don't know? Because the more the merrier. I figure, no matter what angle they're working, getting them the stuff to work with has got to gain me brownie points which will benefit me, somehow, some time down the road. Besides, I like hedging my bets. 

 

"Why you? 'Cause I know you. Very well. Better than the others who are still standing. I understand where you're coming from, can anticipate your moves about as well as you can mine. But, if you're unwilling to step up to the plate, I understand. All I ask is that you don't blow the whistle on me, and don't interfere when I finally do take out the Old Man."

 

"OK," she said, after she'd had time to digest his answers. "I'm in. When are you going to do it?"

 

"When I'm sure about the aliens. No sense making a move if I don't bring back some extra insurance for the Elders. You better be ready to seize control ASAP, though. When Smoky goes, he's going to explode like a vacuum and any and all loose objects are going to get sucked in to fill the void."

 

She nodded. "That means you really will have to get Mulder back to Oregon, because I'll need an excuse to get away from Cancer Man and start making arrangements."

 

"Ah, hell, Marita," Alex grinned, "between the two of us, we could sell ice to Eskimos riding the next Glacial Slide."

 

#

 

When they reached the Hoover Building, Alex didn't hesitate to give away the location of the palm pilot to Marita, not only because he had no plans to return the device to that particular hidey hole, but because he knew he'd have to use it in her presence in order to convince her that he had complete control over Skinner, and he needed her to think the device is what gave him that control. He made sure Skinner's car was in the garage in its assigned spot, near the elevators, then he activated the device, briefly, within plain view of Marita. He dialed it down, then up and down again before leading her up to Skinner's office, entering through the conference room door in the hallway, rather than through the office proper. 

 

Skinner was not surprised to see Alex, but he was surprised that Alex had 'buzzed' him twice. When Marita came into the office behind Alex, Skinner's brain clicked on why: it was Alex's way of letting him know ahead of time that he wasn't alone. Skinner understood from the way Alex behaved, keeping the device in plain sight and doing his 'bad boy' sneering act, that the female was not someone Alex trusted completely, and that she would probably be making a report to Spender on Alex's performance. He took his cue accordingly and reacted appropriately. It didn't take him long to accede to Krycek's demands, but he also pointed out that if Mulder had come back on his own, he would need some persuading to go out there again, at which point they all headed down to the basement to break the news to Mulder.

 

Mulder was alone in his basement office, fully reclined in his chair, tossing and catching a basketball when Skinner walked in unannounced, a curt: "Agent Mulder," his only greeting.

 

Mulder looked over at his boss and set the ball on the desk. "What's our punishment this time, thumbscrews or 40 lashes? Come on in, Walter, sit a spell. This could be the last time you take a trip down to these offices." 

 

"You went to Oregon," Skinner began. 

 

"Guilty as charged. And if they're coming down on you for that, then I'm sorry, I truly am." 

 

"Fortunately, they think that *I* make a contribution to the Bureau." 

 

Mulder snorted bitterly. "Oh, well, yeah, stick to a budget and they say you're making a contribution, but push the limits of your profession and they say you're out of control." 

 

"You could bring home a flying saucer and have an alien shake hands with the President, what it comes down to, Agent Mulder, is: they don't like you."

 

"Well, we didn't bring home a flying saucer --or an alien," Mulder said dejectedly. 

 

"Yeah, so I've been told." Skinner looked over his shoulder to his 'guests,' and waved them in. Mulder caught sight of Krycek, coming into the office ahead of Marita Covarrubias, and sprang to his feet. With a hateful snarl he launched himself at the Russian, but Skinner, anticipating him, intercepted him and pushed him back towards his desk.

 

"Agent Mulder! I think you should listen to him," Skinner said forcefully. 

 

"You've got every reason to want to see me dead," Alex conceded graciously. Skinner wasn't the only one he'd stood up when he'd been unexpectedly incarcerated. He imagined Mulder was pissed that he'd missed their last rendezvous, and that Mulder's information pipeline had dried up --abruptly-- without anyone else coming forward to take Alex's place, as had happened every other time Mulder had lost a Consortium informant. 

 

Skinner intercepted Mulder once more, throwing the younger man backwards as easily as if he was shrugging off his topcoat. 

 

Alex continued his spiel as if Mulder had accepted his tacit apology. "But you've got to listen to me now. You have a singular opportunity." 

 

"Here, or do you want to step outside?" Mulder challenged. 

 

"Agent Mulder, Cancer Man is dying," Marita said as reasonably as she could. Mulder looked at Skinner, who, deciding the agent was through playing macho, stepped away. Mulder turned his full attention to Marita. "His last wish is to rebuild the Project, to have us revive the Conspiracy. It all begins in Oregon," she said as mysteriously as she could. 

 

"The ship that collided with that Navy plane? It's in those woods," Krycek added. 

 

"There's no ship in those woods," Mulder scoffed. 

 

Krycek rolled his eyes. "Of course not. All those former abductees who are disappearing left and right are just merry pranksters who are trying to yank your chain. Those acid stains you found at two of the crime scenes? Just a little extra touch to enhance the illusion that they're actually in trouble rather than staging an eighth anniversary hoax in your honor. 

 

"Are you eating stupid pills for breakfast?

 

"Billy Miles came to you for help, and what did you do? Turn tail and run the minute Saint Scully got a boo-boo. I'm sure Billy, and Teresa and Raymond Hoese, and Gary Cory and who knows who all else, by this time, appreciate all forty-eight tireless hours of sweat and dedication you invested in solving the mystery of their disappearances," Alex sneered. 

 

Mulder bristled, and Skinner braced himself to block another charge, but rather than attack Krycek, Mulder set his arms akimbo defiantly. "They'll be back," he said self-righteously.

 

"Know that for a fact, do you?" Krycek asked. "Why bother going out there in the first place, then, huh? Just seizing your first opportunity to piss off Chesty Short? Have a pathological need to flush the Bureau's precious resources down the toilet on yet another of Spooky's infamous U-fo goose chases? Or do you just enjoy getting the local yokel's hopes up before you bail out half-way through a half-assed investigation? 

 

"You didn't even *try* to get the crash information from the Navy liaison! You kicked around town, made a little noise, pissed off the Sheriff, then took a powder the minute things got tough! God, you're pathetic!"

 

"You're just upset because I was able to walk away. The very fact that you want me to go back there proves that staying would have been a colossal waste of time," Mulder shouted back defensively.

 

"Oh, get over yourself, Mulder!" Alex snarled. "This is about saving the world, not salving your petty bruised ego. For all you know, the Alien Bounty Hunter picked those people up to eliminate proof of all the tests. And do you know where they are as we speak? They're right there. In the woods. Where they've been all along. Right under your nose. Only you blew them off like so much swamp gas!" 

 

"Oh! Spare me the hearts and violins, Krycek, and, for once in your life, just say what you mean: What's the real reason you need me to go back to Bellefleur?" Mulder snapped back.

 

"I need you out there so I can damn the soul of that Cigarette Smoking Son-of-a-Bitch for once and for all!" Alex confessed.

 

Mulder snorted. "How's that work, exactly?"

 

"Marita and I are on a short leash, at the moment, but Smoky's all hot to keep you under surveillance. If you haul your ass back to Oregon, Marita will be able to slip the leash long enough to set up a few dominoes, which she needs to do so I can get a chance at the Old Man," Alex elucidated. "So, yeah, I really *don't* give a rat's ass about the abductees --any more than *you* do. But who knows, Hell might freeze over and you might actually get the evidence you need to prove that extra-terrestrials do exist, *and* save Billy, Teresa, Ray, and Gary into the bargain." 

 

"Yeah, right," Mulder spat with a 'pull the other one' tone. "Why me? Why now?"

 

"Who else is there, and does it matter?" Krycek asked.

 

Mulder didn't have a ready answer to that, but Scully's appearance stopped the conversation cold in any case. She got one good look at Krycek from the doorway to the office and froze in shock. "Mulder?" 

 

The occupants of the office turned to stare at her.

 

"Scully," Krycek whined, "Mulder doesn't want to go back to Oregon and find the downed UFO. Promise him you'll stay here, out of harm's way, so I can kill the Cigarette Smoking Man."

 

Scully stared at Krycek as if waiting for the music to "The Twilight Zone" to over score the moment for posterity. When the silence persisted, she sighed. "Finally crawled out of your hidey hole, did you, Krycek?"

 

"I wasn't hiding," Krycek said curtly. He looked at Marita. 

 

"He's been in Forj Sidi Toui --that's a penal colony in Tunisia-- for the last eight months. Cancer Man's machinations," Marita explained.

 

Scully pursed her lips while she digested this tidbit of news. "Last I heard, Spender was dying of lung cancer."

 

"Dying, at least," Krycek concurred. "Just not fast enough to suit me."

 

"Ah." Scully nodded as if Krycek's answer made perfect sense. She looked at Skinner, then focused her gaze on her partner. "There *were* aliens in Bellefleur, Mulder, you know there were."

 

"So? They gathered up the usual suspects, who'll be back home in no time," Mulder pouted.

 

Marita stepped forward, head bowed as if searching out the words that would convince Mulder to go. "Actually, Agent Mulder, Cancer Man only had Alex freed after the man he originally sent to contact the aliens failed to report in. He knew Alex had contacts with the Resistance, and he believes the reason he lost contact with his other man is because the downed ship is manned --for lack of a better term-- by Resistance aliens. Since the Resistance aliens *aren't* the ones who performed the original abductions, and are, in fact, the ones responsible for the mass burnings of former abductees all around the globe, we don't really know what they are doing to the people they've taken."

 

"Resistance or Colonists, what am *I* supposed to do about it? It's not like I could walk up to the ship, knock on the hull, and ask them to please release their prisoners," Mulder carped. 

 

"Not in so many words, no," Alex agreed. "But, if they *are* Resistance aliens, like Smoky believes, I do have a, um...way of knocking on their door, so to speak," Alex confessed. "A way that won't get us killed outright. I just have to know where the door is." 

 

"What's Spender's interest in these aliens?" Scully asked. 

 

"He wants to regain Purity Control," Krycek said. "The Resistance aliens stole it at the same time they were burning the Consortium Elders at El Rico Air Base."

 

Skinner's usually poker face betrayed his interest in this bit of news by allowing a lone eyebrow to cock at the mention of the El Rico massacre. Alex had once confided to him that it had been he who had arranged for the Resistance aliens to show up and take out the local Consortium Elders. Alex had been horrified to discover that the aliens had torched Cassandra Spender and the Elder's families, as well. 

 

Alex had wanted revenge against the old men who had ruined his life, but he hadn't wanted the innocents to suffer along with them. He identified with the innocents, strange though it might seem to anyone who only knew him as a deadly mercenary, and he hated to waste anything precious, including lives. It was no wonder he was wary of the aliens. 

 

Skinner wondered if, had he been in the same situation, he could have accepted the actions of the aliens as just that-- alien acts-- with the seeming equanimity Alex had. Or was Alex's continued association with the rebels yet another act of a desperate man who was grasping at any ally he could scrounge up? It was something to ponder --another time. He turned his attention back to the conversation at hand. 

 

Scully frowned. "After fifty years, I should think the Consortium scientists would have enough alien DNA samples in their labs to continue their tests indefinitely. Why would they still need Purity Control?"

 

Krycek shrugged. "It's complicated. You know the aliens: you kill them, they dissolve into a puddle of toxic goo. Something about exposure to our atmosphere apparently ruins the DNA. The scientists have to get new, viable, frozen tissue every time they run an experiment, and the Elders didn't exactly toss access cards to Purity Control around like confetti." 

 

Scully's jaw dropped. "Oh, my God! That explains all the clones! Emily, Gibson, Cassandra --why, in fact, there were so many hybridization projects going on at the same time!" The others looked at her blankly. She huffed impatiently. "Don't you see? They could only isolate a few genes at a time, but whatever they salvaged was random, so every gene splice produced a *different hybrid.* Until it's hybridized, the alien DNA isn't stable enough to work with in a normal Earth atmosphere! Each of the different kinds of hybrids is expressing a different alien gene!"

 

Krycek held up a hand to halt the torrent of words, then passed it palm down, over his head in a gesture clearly meaning that what she had just said was over his head. "Save it for the Nobel Committee, will ya, Doc? Right now, we've got more fleeting fish to fry."

 

Scully smirked, but reined herself in, realizing that none of her compatriots were organic chemists. "Right. Sorry. So, why didn't you just kill Spender when you got back into town? Why the need to involve Mulder in some charade about retrieving Purity Control?" Scully asked.

 

"It's not a charade," Krycek said. "We really *do* need Purity Control --or something like it-- in order to come up with a way to protect ourselves from the olien colonists. But whoever controls Purity Control, controls the Consortium --and don't kid yourself, the only ones who went up in flames at El Rico were the Stateside top tier. The whole rest of the pyramid of evil is still very much intact and chugging towards Armageddon at full speed. Call me petty, but the last thing I want is to enable Smoky to seize the reins of *that* particular Juggernaut."

 

Scully sighed curtly. "As opposed to, say, *you,* Krycek?"

 

Krycek jerked his thumb at Marita. "Not my department."

 

"You'd hand over control of the Consortium to the woman who double-crossed you?" Mulder marveled. 

 

Skinner almost gasped. Alex had told him about being double-crossed by some woman with a poly-syllabic name, but he hadn't introduced his female companion, and, thus, up till now, Skinner had not known or understood, who she was. Frankly, he wondered how Alex could trust her. He also found it interesting that Mulder not only *knew* about the double-cross, but recognized the 

perpetrator on sight.

 

"Since I'm getting to choose between the devils I know, yeah, I am," Krycek confirmed without further elaboration.

 

"Fine. You say the ship crashed, Krycek?" Scully asked. Alex nodded. "That means it's stuck in the area until it can repair itself?" Alex nodded again. "Which means it's stationary and damaged, which means we might be able to penetrate its shielding and pinpoint its location with the Lone Gunmen's help. If the Lone Gunmen do find the ship, will you agree to go to Oregon and try to help Billy and the others escape?" Scully asked Alex. 

 

"If Mulder doesn't go, I *can't* go," Alex stressed. "He's the only reason Smoky will let Marita and me out from under his nicotine-stained thumb. Or, in other words: *quid pro quo:* you help me, I'll help you," Alex promised. 

 

"On your own dime, though," Mulder said pointedly, obliquely referring to their trip to San Francisco, when his personal bankroll had feted Krycek as if he were a lord. 

 

Krycek smirked. "Make that Smoky's dime."

 

Scully turned to look at Mulder. "Does that mean you'll go back to Bellefleur?" Mulder's lower lip pooched out in clear reluctance, but he nodded. "Fine," Scully said. "Let's call the Gunmen."

 

#

 

They decided to move the investigation up to Skinner's conference room, where there would be space enough for the Gunmen to plug in their toys. It didn't hurt that the room was attached to Skinner's private bathroom, or that there was a break room down the hall with vending machines and a microwave oven and coffee maker that they could use to keep themselves off Kersh's radar. 

 

Unhappily for the tidy Skinner, this meant that his once orderly conference room was turned into a mass of PCs, maps, crushed burger papers, Styrofoam cups in various states of use, riffled files, the occasional stray french fry, and an even dozen Chinese take-out containers --and all inside five hours. 

 

At least everyone concerned was present to gather around one end of the conference table to listen to the Gunmen's results to date.

 

"What's amazing is that the military satellites don't see it," Frohike said as he studied his screen. 

 

"J.P.L's Topex Poseidon only shows it as waveform data," Langley added. 

 

"And, on the European Space Agency's ERS-2, it appears as a micro burst transmission error," Byers said as he pointed at the video feedback on his own screen. 

 

"In other words?" Skinner asked bluntly. 

 

"In other words, you'd never know it's a UFO," Frohike concluded. 

 

"If you didn't know what you were looking at or looking for," Byers added. 

 

"No wonder we couldn't see them," Langley nodded. 

 

"Listen, it's not going to be there forever," Krycek said. 

 

"As we all stand here talking, it's rebuilding itself," Marita added. 

 

Scully abruptly walked out of the office to pace the hall. Mulder followed her, closing the door behind him. 

 

"Mulder, if any of this is true--"

 

"--If it is, or if it isn't, I want you to forget about it, Scully," Mulder interrupted. 

 

Scully stared at him in disbelief. "Forget about it?" 

 

"You're not going back out there," Mulder clarified. "I'm not going to let you go back out there." 

 

"What are you talking about?" 

 

"It has to end some time. That time is now." 

 

"Mulder...," Scully began in protest. 

 

"Scully, you have to understand that they're taking abductees. *You're* an abductee. I'm not going to risk...," he let the thought trail, but gave her tummy a meaningful glance. "...losing you."

 

Scully melted slowly into his embrace and he clung tightly to her. "I won't let you go alone. I mean, with only Krycek for back-up. I'll ask Skinner to go in my place."

 

"Skinner? Krycek is still pulling his nanocyte strings. I'll ask the guys."

 

"Mulder, compromised or not, Skinner is more than a match for Krycek. Which is more than you can say for all three of the Gunmen put together. Seriously." 

 

Mulder sighed, but nodded. "OK, Skinner it is." They walked back into the conference room and 'cut' Skinner from the 'herd.' 

 

"Sir, I need you to go with Mulder. I don't trust anyone else to guard his back," Scully said. 

 

"And I don't want Scully anywhere near those aliens," Mulder added. "If they are targeting former abductees, for whatever reason, taking Scully back there would only be courting disaster."

 

Skinner heaved a heartfelt sigh. He wasn't the Bureau's first choice of field operative, and the headaches it created in paperwork alone were guaranteed to give him a week's worth of migraines, which didn't even factor in the tsuris he'd be generating trying to square the trip with the bean counters and Kersh. Still, he understood Mulder's concern. Scully had suffered enough. No need to put her at risk again. Especially if they were dealing with the same bunch that had tried to fry her at Ruskin Dam a few years back. "Yeah, OK. I'll figure it out. Hell, you'll probably need my personal assurances of strict supervision to float the 302, anyway." 

 

Skinner moved to an intercom and instructed his secretary, Kim, to make reservations for him and Mulder on the first flight to Oregon, which, according to her call back, wasn't until ten a.m. tomorrow.

 

Skinner made sure Krycek made note of the flight number and time, and Mulder made a point of reminding Krycek that he would have to make his own arrangements.

 

"Fine," Krycek growled. "I'll meet you in Bellefleur. Where do you want to meet up?"

 

"There's a diner at the motel. We'll meet you there, at the bar," Mulder said.

 

"Which motel?" Krycek asked.

 

"There's only one."

 

Krycek colored. "Oh."

 

Mulder smirked. "It's the first place you hit driving into town from the airport."

 

"Right," Krycek mumbled. Precisely why he hadn't known it was the only one in town.

 

"What should *we* do?" Frohike asked.

 

"Stay put," Mulder said. "If the ship moves before we leave, or at any time during our trip, I want to know, ASAP."

 

"You got it," Frohike promised. He smiled at Scully. "Guess that means we'll be keeping each other company for the duration."

 

Scully stared down her nose at the little man, an impressive feat, considering they were about the same height. She wasn't quite sure how to react, but she imagined spending an entire day without Skinner or Mulder there to run interference when Melvin delivered his inevitable string of lame come ons, pick-up lines, and innuendoes. He fancied himself a lady-killer, and he'd been trying to add a 'Scully' notch to his bedpost ever since Mulder introduced her to them, eight years ago. 

 

Scully scowled at him, but before she could figure out the best way to deflate him like an over-blown balloon, Mulder ahemed. "You'd better be on your best behavior, Melvin. Scully just passed her yearly weapons proficiency battery. She out-scored me --and she happened to confide that she was picturing your face on all the perp targets in Hogan's Alley." He tapped his shoulder, where he carried a bullet scar he'd gotten from Scully, as if to remind the guys that his partner was not above shooting good guys when the occasion demanded. 

 

Krycek would have snickered at the speed at which Frohike paled and crossed his heart, but he didn't feel like calling attention to himself, seeing as how Scully had shot Mulder to keep her partner from shooting *him.*

 

"Well, if I'm going, I'll need to get things in order here," Skinner told them. "See you at the airport tomorrow, Agent Mulder," he said as he exited into his office, his mind already working on how he was going to prioritize his caseload so his Deputy Assistant Director, Danny Brancusi, could smoothly pick up the reins of power during his absence. He also had to rearrange the remainder of his day's schedule, and explain to Kersh why he was authorizing further expenses and taking Agent Scully's place on an affair that Mulder himself had closed the day before. 

 

"Yes, sir," Mulder acknowledged automatically.

 

"We need to get going, too," Krycek added quickly, not relishing lingering about without Skinner to act as a buffer between him and Mulder. He looked at Marita and tossed his head, and they ducked out the other door at top speed.

 

The Lone Gunmen arrayed the consoles so one person could monitor all three screens at once, then Langley retired to the spare cot in the ante room attached to Skinner's private bathroom, Frohike stretched out in an executive's recliner they'd scrounged from a near-by office, and Byers settled into the desk chair in front of the collective consoles. It was a well-practiced arrangement, owing to years of round-the-clock surveillance which had determined who stayed the most alert standing any particular watch.

 

Scully, rather than remain behind with the Gunmen, went home with Mulder, ostensibly to help him pack, and only then did she resolve to spend the duration with the Gunman, not so much because she was anxious about her partner's well-being, but so she could learn how to decipher the readings that had alerted the Gunmen to the location of the ship. If they could determine if it was a normal emission rather than an anomaly produced by crash damage, they could program tracking equipment the world over to pin-point the location of any alien ships in their footprint. That kind of intelligence would be vital to any resistance movement. Especially if an invasion fleet really was en route to Earth. 

 

As a parting gesture, Scully gave Mulder her Communion cross necklace. "For luck," she told him. 

 

Marita and Alex reported back to Spender with the good news that Mulder was indeed heading back to Oregon, albeit sans Scully. Spender seemed happy to hear the news.

 

Marita and Krycek used their need to prepare for the flight to Oregon as an excuse to leave the old man as soon as they'd made their report. They retired to Marita's hotel room, the one she had booked upon their arrival from Tunisia, to regroup. 

 

Krycek purchased two airline tickets to Oregon, via Marita's room phone, as if they really were going out there together. As luck would have it, there was only the one flight scheduled from Dulles that day, but, knowing that the Bureau only paid for economy seats, Krycek booked his seats first class. With any luck, Mulder would never know they were on the same plane.

 

After that quite traceable call, Alex graciously left, allowing Marita to believe that he respected her right to contact her people in secret. The real reason he left, however, besides his very real need to launder and repack his clothes for the trip, was that he still had to duplicate the nanocyte's control device before he left for Oregon, and draw Skinner's blood so he would have it when he met the aliens.

 

Which is why, when Skinner got home, Alex was already inside the apartment watching cartoons on the big screen TV in the living room. He shut off the TV as soon as Walter came in, and popped off the sofa to greet Walter with a glass of scotch and a kiss. "Here. Welcome home."

 

"Hmmm.... I could get used to this," Walter smiled. He gave Alex a squeeze, then took a sip of his scotch. "What's up?"

 

"Besides my laundry? Um," Alex licked his lips. His hand dove into his coat pocket and came up with a key and a scrap of paper. "Here. This is the address and unit number of the place I hide my emergency stash. I hate to be cliche, but memorize it and destroy it. That's the key to the lock. Inside the storage unit, there's a stack of boxes marked 'kitchen.' Inside the second box from the top there's a tin of baking chocolate. Inside the tin is my emergency contact information for the Resistance Aliens. No guarantees they'll actually contact you, but at least they won't kill you outright if you meet up. 

 

"In that same box there's a refrigerator memo pad. If it's not safe to get in contact any other way --and if I have the opportunity-- I'll leave and pick up any messages from you on it. At least once a week. In the third box is my emergency money. If you need to get out of Dodge in a hurry, there's enough cash there to get you out of the country. In the same box, I've added a list of some of my foreign bank accounts to an envelope that also contains the names and contact information of useful people all over the world. There's enough cash in the accounts to tide you over until you can re-establish yourself elsewhere. If you feel like it, you can contact the people and work with them. If not...destroy the list so it doesn't fall into the wrong hands. OK?" 

 

"Yeah." Skinner wrapped his arms around Alex and gave him a great, big, bear hug. Alex trusted him with his money, and delicate, possibly critical information. "Thanks. But I don't anticipate having occasion to use it." 

 

Krycek nodded. He'd definitely prefer it that way. "I made a duplicate control device by copying the original drive en toto. I didn't know if you wanted to test it before you left or not. We could, if you want to make sure it works, and find out if it will over-ride the original's signal if they try to use it against you. That's if you want to chance triggering some bad reaction in the original. It's up to you," Alex said.

 

"If they trigger the unit, I have to have the duplicate on me in order to over-ride their signal, right?" Skinner asked.

 

"Yeah. If it works... Do you want to test it or just...use the real one?" Alex asked, almost hesitantly. At Skinner's look he pulled a test tube from his pocket. "We still have to get the blood sample of, uh, active nanocytes."

 

"Right. After I finish my drink. In fact, after I've had dinner and packed. That way I can draw a bath and go to bed without worrying about getting ready for tomorrow."

 

Alex nodded. 

 

In the end, Skinner opted to take his bath before they played with the palm pilots. He settled on the bed, and bared his arm, so Alex could take his blood. Alex had all the gear ready. He wondered if he should tie off Skinner's arm before or after he activated the nanocytes. Decided after, and brought out the two identical units. He knew from past handling which one was the original unit, and he began with that one, nudging the dial up marginally, to activate the tiny carbon robots. 

 

Skinner stiffened as his veins began to bulge with nanocyte plaque. It was a familiar and frightening sensation, as if gnarly roots were twining in and around him, forming a man-sized root ball. 

 

Alex did his best to hurry his sample taking, while maintaining complete proficiency. There was no room for error. He got his sample, secured it in its carrier tube, then cleared away the detritus before picking up the duplicate palm pilot. He stared at it, briefly, tried activating it, then shutting it down. Nothing happened. "Walter, I'm going to have to fiddle with this a bit.... I know it hurts."

 

"--Just get on with it!" Skinner growled. He had tensed to the point that Alex feared he'd break his teeth from the sheer force of grinding them together against the pain. //Should have thought to get him something to bite on,// Alex rued belatedly. All he could do now, besides prolonging the agony, was work as fast as he could.

 

He decided to increase the nano activity on the original unit. Then he activated the second unit, moved it's virtual vernier lever up just enough to activate it, then moved it down. Nothing. He activated it to the same level and brought it down again. No effect. Finally, he matched, then surpassed the activation level of the original unit, before lowering it. 

 

Skinner sighed, and sagged into the mattress. "It work?" he asked, since he had no idea how Alex had stopped the reaction.

 

"Yeah. Hold on...." Alex picked up the original device once more, moved the dial higher. No reaction. He shut it off, then reactivated it. Skinner jerked. Alex shut it off immediately. "Damn! Small problem, Bear: you have to get the duplicate's activation level higher than the original's or it won't over-ride the signal, but if they shut down their device and reactivate it, it will kick in, again. If they mean to kill you, they'll probably just shove the dial up, full force, and leave it. If they don't turn it all the way up, or don't keep it all the way up, they weren't intending to kill you in the first place, but if they think something's gone wrong with the signal, they'll just crank it up higher their next attempt."

 

"Oh. Bummer. Still, it was a good idea," Skinner said. 

 

"Yeah. So...are we still going to do this?"

 

Skinner looked at his sometime lover. He really believed Krycek would nix the deal on his say-so. It was a comforting thought, but there was too much at stake. "Yeah."

 

Krycek nodded. "That Cancer Riddled Bastard is *so* dead," he promised. "Do you want me to stash this, or do you want to hold onto it?" Alex asked of the duplicate unit.

 

Skinner hummed as he mulled it over. "I'll keep it. That way you won't have to leave early." 

 

Alex smiled. "Very thoughtful of you, Vlad." He kissed Skinner's cheek.

 

Skinner grimaced. "No touching, Val. Skin's too sensitive."

 

"No problem, Bear. I'll just make myself a little nest on the floor. Hell, after eight months of sleeping on bare dirt, a carpeted floor with blankets and a pillow will be Heaven on Earth," he avowed.

 

Alex took a couple of comforters, a pair of sheets, and a pillow from the linen closet in the hall, and laid them out at the foot of Skinner's bed. That way he could see his lover, and be available to help him if he needed to get up during the night.

 

Skinner did not need to get up. He slept like the dead. He slept through his alarm. Alex shook him vigorously till he roused, and practically dragged him into the shower. The hot water revived him enough that he dressed, stashed the duplicate palm pilot in his bedroom safe, and went downstairs without prompting. 

 

Alex had brought Walter's luggage down when he came downstairs to make breakfast. His own luggage was sitting by the door, ready to go. 

 

Walter came into the kitchen. Alex had set out a bowl of Musili with cut banana on top and 2% milk on the side and a glass of cold pineapple juice for Walter. His own breakfast consisted of chocolate milk and pineapple rings sandwiched between double slabs of cold ham and cheese. He had resorted to the unusual fare to spare Walter the smell of hot, greasy meat. He knew Walter 

wasn't suffering from a hangover, but it couldn't hurt to make the environment as unobtrusive as possible.

 

Walter shook his head when he saw Alex's idea of breakfast. He caressed the side of Alex's face with a calloused hand. "Thanks for taking care of me last night," he said.

 

"I didn't do anything," Alex shrugged.

 

"You slept on the floor to be close enough to me to do whatever I might have needed you to do the moment I needed it, and let a perfectly good guest bed go wanting. I appreciate that." Walter bussed Alex on the lips. "Thanks again."

 

Alex beamed and batted his eyelashes with appreciative embarrassment. "Well, if you think you can handle things from here, I'll get going."

 

Walter waved him away. "I'm fine. Go on. See you in Bellefleur."

 

#


	8. Chapter 8

#

CHAPTER EIGHT

#

"The burning conviction that we have a holy duty toward others is often a way of attaching our drowning selves to a passing raft." -- Eric Hoffer 

# 

Bellefleur, Oregon

Thursday, May 31st

#

 

Alex picked a frosty blonde out of the stand-by line to use Marita's ticket, giving Marita the cover she needed to scoot her butt out of town and gather whatever forces she could in anticipation of Spender's demise. The object of his largesse, having agreed to wear Marita's coat, scarf and sunglasses in order to secure the ticket, squealed gleefully when she discovered she'd landed first class accommodations. He was almost convinced she'd have joined the mile high club with him if he'd asked. 

 

The nice thing about first class was the separate lounge and first boarding privileges. It kept him well out of Mulder's sight. Unfortunately, all of Krycek's 'special' cargo was in his carry-on, which meant his actual clothing had to be packed in checked in luggage. He didn't want to have to wade through baggage claims, but he didn't want to take the time to buy more gear, either. He ran a greater risk of encountering the Fibbies in the baggage claim area than anywhere else, but he figured he'd just have to chance it. At least the flight would be over by that time, and he'd have spared himself a four and a half hour plane ride in Mulder's company. 

 

By the time they landed, Alex decided to skirt the issue by renting a car first. Then he waited outside the terminal until he saw Skinner and Mulder leave the baggage claim area and head for rent-a-car row before going back inside to claim his own bags and, because of the sudden glut of customers coming from Baggage Claim, he managed to clear the airport before Skinner and Mulder signed their rental agreement. He was well into his second beer by the time they arrived at the motel diner.

 

Skinner sent Mulder to register and collect their room keys, allowing him a few minutes alone with Alex, who was lounging in plain sight at the motel restaurant's bar. "Get everything?" he asked.

 

Alex nodded. "Yeah. Just keep Mulder out of my backpack, and we'll be OK."

 

"Will do."

 

There was nothing else they could do, so they waited for Mulder to join them in silence. Mulder didn't join them, though. He just stood in the doorway and waved at them. Since they'd finished their conversation, they didn't hesitate to follow. Mulder led them to his and Skinner's room, and they went inside.

 

There was the usual table with two chairs but, since there were three of them, they moved the table close enough to the nearest bed so Skinner could use it as a seat. Mulder ended up boxed in by the walls, bed and table. Alex took the chair nearest the door, back facing the wall perpendicular to the door. 

 

"So, what's the plan?" Alex asked. "We going to drive out there together, or separately?"

 

"Together works for me," Skinner said.

 

"Yeah, why not," Mulder conceded.

 

"Tonight or tomorrow?" Alex asked.

 

Skinner looked out the window, which he was facing. "I don't know. "It's getting dark."

 

Mulder shrugged. "The sooner the better, if you ask me. Besides, I brought some laser pointers. They'll work better at night."

 

Alex shrugged. "OK. I'll go change. Then we can go."

 

"Fine. I'll call Scully and the Gunmen and let them know we're on the move," Mulder volunteered, and proceeded to do just that. Scully assured him that the ship had not moved, and reiterated the approximate GPS coordinates.

 

Alex returned inside fifteen minutes and knocked on the door. He had his backpack dangling from his prosthetic. 

 

Mulder answered the door, his own pack in hand, and laughed. "What is that, a parka? Going to the Great White North?"

 

Alex ground his teeth. He was wearing a heavier coat than the other two, but he needed it: they hadn't spent the last eight months in an un-air conditioned Tunisian prison. Mulder, on the other hand, looked like a once and future mirror image of Alex in his bad boy leather jacket and blue jeans, while Skinner was decked out in chinos and a navy windbreaker. At least they were wearing hiking boots. 

 

The two Fibbies exited the room, and Skinner, keys in hand, unlocked the trunk so Mulder could stow his pack. At Skinner's direction, Mulder rode shotgun and played navigator with the GPS device, leaving Alex alone in the back seat with his pack. 

 

It was twelve miles to the landing sight, but it didn't take them long to reach the stretch of paved road nearest the site. Mulder directed Skinner to pull over and park, and found himself at the very spot he had parked when he'd come out to the woods to investigate the disappearance of Gary Cory. The significance was not lost on Mulder, but he preferred to make no mention of the fact to his companions. 

 

Skinner got out of the car and popped the trunk lid, allowing Mulder to grab the equipment he had brought with them from Washington, D.C. "This is starting to feel like a snipe hunt I went on when I was a Boy Scout," Skinner said. 

 

Mulder, shouldering his backpack, headed off into the woods. "There's no such thing as a snipe, sir."

 

"Actually, there is," Alex chimed in, his own pack back firmly settled on his shoulders. "They're shore birds, though. You never find them in the woods."

 

"Hence the meaning of the phrase: 'snipe hunt,' since woods are the very places you are inevitably conned into hunting them," Skinner said. "It's not the kind of feeling I want to have when my ass is on the line." 

 

"Well, we ought to know one way or the other, pretty soon, sir," Mulder said.

 

#

 

Back in Skinner's conference room, Scully, waiting for a telephone report from Mulder, bided her time reading abductee files. Once the actual operation got underway, Langley roused his fellow Gunmen so they could share the thrills, although he was still the one officially in charge of monitoring the readouts. For their own parts, Byers was trying to see if he could locate any other space ships anywhere around the globe using the readouts from the downed UFO as search parameters, while Frohike was surreptitiously watching Scully while he pretended to do the same. 

 

Scully frowned at the file she was reading, and flipped the covers on a few others in order to compare notes. "This just can't be," she said with a tone of concern that belied her dismissal.

 

"What are you looking at?" Frohike asked instantly, as he abandoned any pretense of working and moseyed behind her in order to glance over her shoulder at the files. 

 

"Medical records," Scully replied. "Billy Miles' and other known abductees in Bellefleur, Oregon. They all experienced anomalous brain activity."

 

Byers also abandoned his scans to cross over to the opposite end of conference table from where Langley was busy at work, where Scully had splayed the files she was examining: "Electro-encephalitic trauma," he confirmed. 

 

Scully nodded. "Which is exactly what Mulder experienced earlier this year." 

 

At that announcement, Langley stopped what he was doing and looked at her. "I don't understand." 

 

"There was something out there in that field. It knocked me back. Because it didn't want me. Mulder thinks that it's me that's in danger of being taken--" 

 

"--When it's Mulder who's in danger!" Frohike blurted with sudden comprehension. 

 

Abruptly, Scully weaved on her feet, her eyes rolled around in their sockets, her head bobbled, then her knees gave out.

 

"Scully?" Frohike yelped and caught her as she sank floorward. Byers and Langley leapt towards her nano-seconds later, as if to help catch her, although only Byers was close enough to reach her before Frohike, not knowing what else to do, laid her on the floor.

 

"Scully! Whoa! You okay? Oh, gee," Frohike moaned. He had dreamed about the day he would have an armful of Scully, but this was not how it was supposed to play out. 

 

"What should we do?" Langley asked, nervously glancing back at his monitoring station. "The operation's in play."

 

"We need to alert Mulder," Byers said. "He's in danger."

 

"OK. You call Mulder, I'll call the paramedics," Langley said, leaving Frohike to play Scully's de facto nurse.

 

Frohike fanned his hand over Scully's face while he thought furiously back to his Boy Scout First Aid days. He dragged a chair over to prop Scully's legs up, so the blood would flow to her brain, then he felt her skin. Was she clammy? Sweating? Cold? Hot? How was her pulse? Respirations? 

 

She groaned and tried to sit up. 

 

"Lie still, Red. We've called an ambulance," Frohike told her.

 

"I can't get ahold of Mulder or Skinner," Byers reported. "The operator claims they're out of range."

 

They looked at each other. They hoped that was true.

 

#

 

"How's this supposed to work?" Skinner asked of his agent as he pushed the tripods' legs firmly into the dirt and checked the laser box on top of it, by eye, for levelness. 

 

There were already ten lasers set up in the clearing where Gary Cory had supposedly disappeared, but there were five more of the double thick VHS cassette tape-sized black boxes in Mulder's pack, which was now in Skinner's possession. 

 

Mulder had shown Skinner how to set the lasers up so that, while his boss got them into position, he could turn them on and spin them around to check the beams' penetration factor. "Not exactly sure, sir. But, uh..., " Mulder checked a readout on his lasers' control device, "budgetarily, I'd say we're looking pretty good."

 

Skinner, as per Mulder's directions, pointed the lasers outward in a circular pattern. 

 

Mulder then went from one laser to the next, turning them on and checking the beam's line of sight as he swivelled them a hundred and eighty degrees. 

 

Baring the trees that got in their way, they were supposed to shoot out pencil thin beams of ruby light so coherent that a beam aimed at the moon would have only spread two miles in diameter after crossing the distance between the two heavenly bodies. The Lone Gunmen had assured him that, if the beams did not shoot through the air beyond the eye's ability to detect it, something was preventing it physically from doing so, and that something should be the shields of their camouflaged UFO. 

 

Alex, who already knew the exact location of the ship, paced anxiously back and forth while Mulder swung each laser around in a half circle and noted the behavior of the separate beams. 

 

Virtually endless beam, beam hitting trees, beam stopping in mid-air. 

 

Mulder's head went up. He stepped to another unit and swung it around. 

 

Miles long beam, trees --beam ending in mid-air having hit nothing that the eye could discern.

 

Mulder went to the next laser, and the next until he had two beams, on the extreme right and left shooting off into virtual infinity, and eight beams between the two flanking beams focused in a rough line demarking the suspect area, all of them apparently stopping dead in mid-air. 

 

Mulder knew that wasn't supposed to happen, but Skinner, apparently, did not, because he frowned at the unit he was fiddling with, completely oblivious to the significance of the arrested beams. Alex, on the other hand, seemed to know exactly what it meant, because he stopped pacing, and made a bee-line for a point between the outer two devices' beams, fiddling with his watch as he went. 

 

One second Alex was there. The next, he wasn't. 

 

"Shit!" Mulder exclaimed, not knowing what made him madder: the fact that Alex had ditched him; that Alex actually had a way to contact the aliens; that he, himself, might miss the chance to contact them; or that he wouldn't miss the chance, and what that might mean. Before Mulder could decide, his feet made his mind up for him and he found himself trotting over to the spot where Alex had disappeared. 

 

Mulder halted just short of the shield and cautiously put his hand out. Suddenly, he felt as if he were caught up in a mix-master blender. After a quick episode of Shaken Baby Syndrome, he was through. He gaped. There *was* a ship. It was sort of lying on its side. Sort of, because, while it was indeed edgewise to the ground, it was hovering off the actual ground by a good six feet. In fact, as he watched, it rose above tree top level, and 'righted' itself. 

 

A blue beam of light flooded out of its mid-section and hit the ground, catching Alex firmly in the beam...and...nothing happened.

 

It seemed anti-climactic, somehow. Then Mulder realized that, per Krycek's taunts, he had expected to find the whole gang of abductees milling about the shielded woods like sheep in a cote. The very notion that the aliens would kidnap their hostages, haul them out to the ship, but, rather than securing them inside the ship immediately, allow them to frolic about in the woods unattended for an entire week until *Mulder* showed up to make their little group complete was so profoundly idiotic, he blushed. 

 

At that point Krycek folded his arms. "Coming?" he asked. 

 

Not being the sort to disappoint, Mulder stepped into the light. It was very much like taking his place on a Star Trek transporter pad.

 

He instantly felt as if he were rising, but his spatial relationship to Krycek had not changed. He looked up, then down, confirming that it wasn't the ship that was getting closer to the ground, but the two of them who were getting closer to the ship. The ground was a body's length away from his feet, then two, then he was being swallowed by the ship's hatch. The floor closed, the beam shut off, and he and Alex were inside the ship.

 

A bevy of standard Grey type aliens were standing in a circle surrounding the 'transporter pad.' Alex took off his backpack and rummaged inside for two metal containers and one plastic one, which he held out to one of the aliens, who accepted them and exited. Alex looked lost, after that, but another alien stepped forward, motioned with its arm, and escorted him out the door. 

 

At that point, one of the greys facing Mulder morphed into the familiar visage of a Bounty Hunter. "Welcome aboard, Mr. Mulder. Please, come this way."

 

"Where are the other abductees? What have you done with them? What do you want with me? Where did Krycek go? What was in the containers he gave you?" Mulder queried as he followed the alien out the same door Alex had gone through, but, although mere seconds had elapsed between their entrances, Alex was no where to be seen, or heard, for that matter.

 

The Bounty Hunter didn't reply, he merely continued on down the corridor. Mulder thought about stopping, but apart from the fact that he had no idea how to escape, his curiosity was keening so intensely he was practically deafened. He kept walking. He entered a room where a lone device sat, all smoothly gleaming metal and round edges. It looked vaguely like a chopper, complete with banana seat. 

 

The door closed behind him and disappeared seamlessly into the surrounding wall. The Bounty Hunter turned and smiled at him. "Please be so good as to remove your clothing."

 

Mulder snorted. "I will not."

 

The Bounty Hunter motioned with his hand. Another beam of light poured down onto Mulder. A familiar beam, from childhood nightmares. The one that had paralyzed him during his sister's abduction. He was paralyzed again. Helpless. The alien gestured again, and he felt his feet leave the ground once more. 

 

The Bounty Hunter removed Mulder's clothing for him, dropping them like so many veils onto the bare metal floor. When he was finished, he waved again, and Mulder began sliding through the air, towards the device. 

 

He felt himself spin, then sink gently into the machine's embrace. His limbs fit themselves into the grooves meant for them and held themselves in place as cruel spikes erupted from the smooth metal body and impaled his forearms between the radii and ulnae, and his shins between the fibulae and tibiae. 

 

He screamed, but the alien ignored him. Another wave, and the paralyzing beam cut off, leaving Mulder free to test his bonds. The spikes had bent just enough to trap his limbs, and every flex was agony. Mulder stilled. "What are you going to do to me?"

 

The Bounty Hunter morphed back into an indistinguishable Grey. It touched the 'fuel tank' of the metal holding device, and its innards stirred . 

 

Mulder felt something cold and metal-smooth push up into his rectum. It inched upwards until it breached his inner sphincter and entered his bowels. Then it expanded, until it filled him securely, holding his canal wide open. 

 

Another hair-thick liquid metal tendril snaked out of the 'tank' and wormed its way into the piss slit of his penis. Up it went, into his abdominal cavity, into the section of his ureter surrounded by his prostate, where it stopped. 

 

Mulder screamed again as two more metallic spikes shot out of the machine and pierced his testicles. The 'fuel tank' began to roll forwards, till it covered his groin. Then it started humming. The sensation on his privates was not unlike a vibrator. He felt his penis stiffen, in spite of the thing invading it. Then the spikes started vibrating. 

 

Mulder screamed again as he was speeded to climax. He felt his semen shoot out --*in* to the tube that seemed to suck up his ejaculate like it was starved. Again, and again, and again, he came, in rapid succession, till his poor abused testicles were drained dry and aching from exertion. 

 

//No more sperm for Fox.// He thought. And then, thinking about Scully, he wondered if it was only a temporary condition, or whether it was forever. Sterilized, or just exhausted? He knew that the average human male testicles carried enough sperm to produce forty-nine ejaculations in a row, after which the supply was exhausted by too great and too frequent a demand. Normally, the testes would need at least two weeks to generate enough new sperm to populate any further ejaculations, so, if he had just been sterilized, getting a sperm count in one month's time would tell him one way or the other. 

 

//Wherever Krycek is, I hope he's enjoying the same treatment,// Mulder thought. 

 

It was Mulder's last coherent thought for several hours, for claw-like hooks emerged from the head rest and sank into his cheeks like mutant fangs, immobilizing his head like a raw pelt on a stretcher. More sinister devices, buzzing and whirring maniacally, sprang out of and descended from the ceiling. As they came closer, the tendril ends gained definition and shape: hard, hair thin, rotating drills; foot-long needles; and tiny, three fingered, pinscher-like lamps, writhing and coiling and raking the air like a nest of snakes. 

 

He realized they were aiming themselves at his nose, eyes, and brain. He tried to move, but he was held fast. Closer, and closer, and closer they inched, until...they touched him, drilling, piercing, and penetrating him. Buzzing in his flesh. Blood erupted at their every touch, boiling from the heat of friction. He screamed till his voice gave out.

 

#

 

Back in the clearing, Skinner looked up from setting up the final laser. He was alone. "Agent Mulder?! Alex?"

 

Impossible. They couldn't have both disappeared without a sound. 

 

"Mulder!" 

 

Skinner started heading toward the dots of red light. Somehow he knew the answers were there.

 

Suddenly, a bright, white light flared as if from nowhere just beyond the trail of dots. It rose into the sky, becoming, as it rose, a huge saucer-shaped craft lit up like a small city. It continued to rise, till he could make out its round, blue glowing belly. Then it shot away at an impossible speed, made an abrupt ninety degree eastward turn, and disappeared as surely as if someone had put out the porch light, leaving him with only the terrestrial glow of red laser beams --now extending themselves to the dark horizon --or the nearest tree-- and the celestial twinkle of distant stars to illuminate the gloom around him. 

 

"Alex!" 

 

The bastards had taken Alex *and* Mulder. Right out from under his nose! Skinner felt sick. He felt anguished. He felt betrayed. What would the aliens do to them? //They weren't supposed to do anything to them!// he thought angrily. "Oh, God! What if they don't come back?"

 

He stood looking up at the empty sky until the chilly night air roused him. Nothing to do but pack up and return to the motel. "What am I going to tell Scully?"

 

#

 

Krycek was led away to a tiny room and left there. There was no furniture, so, eventually, he pressed his back against the wall and slid to the floor. He sat there for what seemed to be an hour, (he couldn't be sure, though, since earth watches didn't work aboard the ship. Too much interference from the ship's artificial gravity well.) 

 

Just about the time he was ready to start banging on the wall for attention, he was let out, and led back to the transporter hatch. The alien left him there, then returned with two dozen soda can sized canisters of alien tissue samples frozen in liquid nitrogen, which Alex stuffed into his back pack, then the blue beam floated him down to a secluded spot along the Potomac. 

 

He knew it was the Potomac, despite the dark of night, because he recognized the surrounding buildings and the smell of the water. Every river had its own smell. Every street and every alley. The businesses along them might repeat themselves the world over, but the spices were different, and they colored the air and the pavement and, like Walter had said, the flesh. 

 

Alex hummed to himself with the revelation that he had known it without being consciously aware of it, but now, thanks to Walter, he *was* conscious of it, and it was reassuring to know he knew where he was with absolute certainty. 

 

The ship, in the meantime, slipped away like a wisp of cloud in a high wind: a shape tumbled to meaningless mist then nothingness. Alex pulled out his cell phone and called a taxi. Then, while he was waiting to be picked up, he called Marita. She assured him she was ready to roll, and promised to join him to witness the dirty deed. (No sense in committing oneself to a palace coup if you didn't make sure the King was Dead.) 

 

Alex had the taxi take him to his emergency stash in Georgetown, to an arcade to get change, then to Dulles Airport, a bowling alley, and the train station, dividing up his canisters of DNA into various pay lockers at each location. He stashed the keys for each location in separate pockets about his person, then, on their way to an out-of-the-way motel, he had the cabbie drive through a fast food joint so he could snag a hot meal and await Marita's arrival in relative comfort. 

 

Since Marita was still in New York, it would take her at least five hours to get to D.C., best time scenario, so he laid out on the bed, ate his dinner, and took a nap. It was morning by the time Marita arrived. They made a call and set up a meeting with Spender. 

 

Nurse Greta let them in. Spender was sitting in his wheelchair, looking out the window, looking demoralized. "We've failed, then," he said, before they even spoke. Perhaps you never meant to succeed. Anyway... the hour is at hand, I presume?"

 

Krycek figured the old man must have had spies in Bellefleur, so he didn't bother with a song and dance, he just grabbed the handles of the wheelchair and steered Spender out to the stairway landing. 

 

Nurse Greta stepped forward, as if to stop him, but Marita snubbed her with a glance promising death if she interfered. 

 

"What are you doing? " Greta protested.

 

"Sending the Devil back to Hell," Alex obligingly told her. 

 

"As you do to Mulder and to me... you do to all of mankind, Alex." 

 

Alex stilled for a moment, wondering if he should respond with a characteristically snide or a pithy, event-worthy rejoinder. Nothing appropriate sprang to mind, however. He didn't even feel like gloating, so, in the end, he merely tipped up the chair and spilled Spender out like so much trash. He let go of the chair for good measure, sending it tumbling after the old man. With any luck, it would cause some gratuitous collateral damage once it caught up to its owner again. 

 

Then, without a single glance back at the open door, where Greta's bosoms were heaving mournfully at the plight of her former employer, Alex stepped deliberately down the stairs. He paused to eye the body, just to satisfy himself that the job had indeed been done, then he stepped delicately over the corpse and down the last flight of stairs. 

 

Marita followed him silently. "I thought you were going to taunt him before you killed him?" Marita asked as they climbed into her car. 

 

"Yeah, me, too. When it came down to it, though, I just thought --why give him the satisfaction?" To brag about accomplishing his mission would have only reassured the old bastard that the project would, indeed, continue. "Just let him fucking stew in Hell." Alex's smiled a cold, satisfied smirk at the memory.

 

Marita pursed her lips. Alex had had eight months to plan Morley's death, but, sometimes, she knew, things rehearsed in your mind seemed inadequate when it came time to actually utter them. Something about the tension in the air, the reality of the moment, had not lent itself to Alex's rehearsed send off, but without that final riposte, the act seemed a bit anti-climactic. "Pity." 

 

Had it been her, she would have wanted to say something. Anything. She had never even fantasized the moment, herself, though, so she'd had no ready witticism to toss in over Alex's silence. Somehow, she'd known she'd never have killed the old bastard on her own, so she supposed she would have to be thankful that Alex had at least done the deed, as promised, and be content to savor the orts of revenge. "Where should I drop you?"

 

"Dulles. How many labs will you need DNA for?"

 

"At least four."

 

"OK. You get my visa?"

 

"Right here." She handed him a visa that would allow him to enter Russia under diplomatic papers. He hoped it would be enough protection to allow him to exit the country with a whole skin. At least, if he disappeared there, Marita would know where he was. //Cold comfort, that.// 

 

"Good Luck," she said, as she pulled to the curb at the international terminal at Dulles. 

 

"Yeah. Keep in touch." Alex dropped four of the train station's locker keys into his vacated passenger seat. "Metro station," he said.

 

"Convenient."

 

"We aim to please," Alex grinned. He walked into the terminal, then spun around and hid so he could watch her drive away without her seeing him do so. Satisfied that she really was heading for the train station and not trying to follow him, Alex walked to the airport's lockers and collected the canisters of DNA he had stashed there. Between his Majestik 12 and FSB credentials, he would never have to submit to a search of his person, or his luggage, on either side of the now, mostly symbolic, Iron Curtain. He was set. He bought a plane ticket for the next flight out of the country. 

 

Alex had a lot of travelling ahead of him, but his final act before boarding the plane was to call Skinner's condo and leave a message, so Walter would know he had been dropped off in D.C., but was leaving the country on Resistance business. He also let Skinner know that the aliens hadn't touched him, but that he did could not say the same about Mulder, because he had not seen the agent once they were taken aboard. 

 

#

 

Nurse Greta watched the two double-dealing spies traipse over the felled body of her charge. When they were quite gone, she morphed into the shape of an Alien Bounty Hunter and clumped down to the landing to check Spender's corpse. He held his hands over Spender's neck and concentrated. A golden glow formed a ball in his palms, and entered Spender's body. 

 

Spender grunted. "How long?" 

 

"Long enough," the Bounty Hunter replied. 

 

Spender shuddered. Those last seconds, aware, but unable to move, to breathe, had been terrifying. "Thank you for resuscitating me. I hope it provides the stimulus I need to activate the transplant."

 

The Bounty Hunter nodded. "I find it odd that Krycek would kill you, yet, apparently, continue to follow your bidding," he said as he slang Spender over his shoulder, then did a deep knee bend to enable him to grasp the wheelchair by one handle. "I read in his mind that he had succeeded in securing Purity Control, and was preparing to disseminate pieces of it to project labs around the globe," he added as he carted man and chair up the stairs and back into the apartment. After settling Spender back into the righted chair, the alien morphed back into the voluptuous form of Nurse Greta. 

 

Spender smiled. "Disseminate or sell? Poor Alex. He wants so badly to be a good boy. But his own ambitions always interfere. It makes him so predictable, so easy to manipulate."

 

Greta nodded. Then she went to pack up Spender's essentials. There was no point in remaining in D.C. now. After setting the luggage near the door, she called the front desk to bring their limo around. 

 

A bellboy with a luggage carrier was soon at their door. Nurse Greta and Spender watched as the middle-aged 'boy' loaded all their bags onto a steel cart, then wheeled the cart over to the service elevator. 

 

Nurse Greta wheeled Spender into the service elevator in front of the baggage, and they rode down to the lobby in silence. When they arrived, the bellboy pushed the laded luggage cart out to the curb and helped the waiting the limo driver pack the trunk, while Nurse Greta wheeled Spender to the front desk to pay his bill. She then she pushed him out to the curb. He stood to get into the back seat of the waiting car, while Nurse Greta folded up the wheelchair and added it to the trunk, as well. Nurse Greta followed her charge into the limo's backseat. 

 

The driver shut the door on his passengers, then got behind the wheel, at which point Nurse Greta told him their destination, a building in nearby Baltimore, Maryland. From there, 'nurse' and charge would call for more private transport to take them to their final destination.

 

Spender smiled pleasantly and enjoyed a smoke provided by Nurse Greta. He was already plotting his revenge on Krycek. Predictability was one thing, audacity quite another.

 

#


	9. Chapter 9

#

CHAPTER NINE

#

"There is nothing more tragic in life than the utter impossibility of changing what you have done." -Galsworthy

#

George Washington University Hospital, Washington, D.C.

Friday, June 1st

#

 

With no one to help him, it had taken Skinner an hour to pack up the lasers and haul them back to the car. The ride back to the motel seemed to take longer, as well, though he knew it was because there was no chatter to divert his mind from the task of driving. He pulled up in front of the room he had shared with Mulder and pondered his next move. The only thing he decided was that he'd be better off inside, where there was heat and a bed and --more importantly-- a mini bar. 

 

He noticed the red light on the motel phone, indicating that he had a phone message and went over to the phone to collect it. The messages --there were more than one-- turned out to be from Frohike. Skinner called the little man back at once. 

 

Frohike obediently recited Scully's theory about how Mulder was in danger of being abducted by the aliens because of his brain wave patterns. Skinner barked an ironic laugh, then confessed that he had already misplaced his two companions. 

 

Frohike admitted that they had pretty much expected alien activity when they were unable to reach any of the trio directly. He elaborated on how Scully had been able to devise her theory from the dossiers on the local abductees. He then shocked Skinner by concluding his narrative with Scully's collapse, confessing that he wasn't in Skinner's conference room at the Hoover, as Skinner had assumed, but was, rather, in the waiting room of The George Washington University Hospital's ER, awaiting word on Scully's condition. Frohike and Langley had left Byers alone in the conference room and had followed Scully's ambulance in their van, however, because they were not next of kin, or co-workers with impressive badges, or on Scully's emergency contact list, they did not know the current status of the surveillance or Scully, either one.

 

Skinner had cursed, hung up, and booked a flight back to D.C. immediately. He packed up his and Mulder's belongings and threw them into the rental, then used his authority as an F.B.I. agent to get into Krycek's room and pack up his things, as well. He paid off both rooms, turned in his key --the other two keys had gone the way of the dodo with their possessor's-- and drove back to the airport, not even bothering to report the latest abductions to the local authorities --not that there was anyone left to make a report to, since, according to the papers, the body of Billy Mile's father had been found in the trunk of his police car the day after Billy himself had disappeared. 

 

Skinner had no idea who was in charge of policing the town now, but he wasn't going to drop everything and find out at this late date.

 

With all the extra luggage he was toting, he had to pay overage charges, but he hadn't wanted to leave anything behind to possibly get lost, he just paid up and stuffed the baggage claim tags into his wallet. His stern sense of discipline, coupled with the fact that unless he was actually present, he could do nothing about what he found out in any case, enabled him to refrain from calling Frohike during his flight in order to find out if Scully had been seen and/or gotten a prognosis as yet.

 

Instead, Skinner put his time to use re-examining the incident in the woods. He hadn't actually seen anything definitive. He couldn't, for instance, say he had watched actual aliens snatch Mulder and drag him off, and he had decided to omit Alex's participation in the outing altogether, to cut down on the paperwork and explanations, both. Just reporting that Mulder had disappeared while he had fiddled with a laser was embarrassing enough. 

 

Not as embarrassing as admitting that he had seen a UFO take off from the woods *after* Mulder had disappeared, or confessing that he believed that Mulder had been on board the craft, but enough for his performance to be dismissed as shoddy work. Any competent junior agent would have immediately called for reinforcements and conducted a search of the woods. Not having followed protocol, there was no way he could prove Mulder hadn't merely wandered off and gotten lost.

 

All he could muster in his own defense was his gut feeling that Mulder, (and Alex), were aboard the ship. He knew it was true, but it sounded bad to his own ears, and, wanting to delay the inevitable for as long as possible, he decided to drive directly to the hospital from the airport. 

 

He did not check his home phone for messages in transit. 

 

He entered the emergency room's waiting area and scanned an unfortunate sea of faces, some in pain, others merely weary with waiting or worry, for the familiar visages of Frohike or Langley. When he didn't find them, he pulled out his phone and dialed the little man, who directed him to the fourth floor. 

 

Skinner approached Scully's hospital room as if he were going into a hostage situation against a serial killer without a weapon. He didn't know what he expected to find, but it wasn't a wan but somehow radiant Dana Scully laying in her hospital bed as if she were the Queen of England deciding whether or not to grant him an audience. "Agent Scully?" Skinner said hesitantly, waiting to be acknowledged.

 

"Hi, sir." Her hand went up to fiddle at her neck, missing the cross she had given Mulder.

 

"Hi. How are you feeling?" he asked as he stepped over to the head of her bed, the better to see her.

 

"I'm feeling fine. They're just running some tests on me."

 

Skinner couldn't hold her eyes, so he dropped his gaze to his feet. "Well... um..." he searched for the words he needed to tell her he had lost Mulder, for the courage he needed to blurt the awful words out, but he failed on both counts.

 

She spared him the trouble. "I already heard," she admitted softly, a sorrowful moue marring her pale face.

 

Her confession seemed to free his tongue. "I lost him. I don't know what else I can say. I lost him. I'll be asked...what I saw. And what I saw, I can't deny. I won't." 

 

Scully let her tears fall. "We will find him. I have to." 

 

Skinner nodded. He expected no less. After all, that's what partners did. He started to turn, to leave, for he had nothing left to say. Nothing but empty assurances even he couldn't believe.

 

Scully reached out her hand and grabbed his arm, effectively snaring him. "Sir, um... there's something else I need to tell you. Something that I need for you to keep to yourself. "

 

Skinner looked pained. What could she possibly say that would be worse than what he had already told her? He looked at her questioningly. 

 

She started to talk, caught herself, then made a noise halfway between a cry of pain and of absolute elation. "I'm having a hard time explaining it. Or believing it. But, um...," joy won out, and she beamed at him, "I'm pregnant." 

 

Skinner gaped, speechless. "But-- how? I mean, I thought-- you were sterilized --during the abduction?"

 

Scully nodded. "Mulder found my oocytes. I decided to use them. Mulder-- Mulder donated the sperm." She tried to smile at the memory, but thinking of him only brought a fresh wave of pain. Tears renewed, she fought to explain. "I began fertility treatments a few months ago. My pregnancy is a result of the third implantation procedure."

 

"I-- I don't know what to say."

 

"Say you'll help me find the father of my baby."

 

"I will. But...will you be up to it?"

 

"For as long as I can possibly manage it, yes. I need to be on the case."

 

"OK. Your call. As far as the Bureau is concerned, my lips are sealed."

 

That was enough for Scully. She patted his hand and turned him loose. Skinner staggered out to that wing's visitor's lounge and collapsed into the first empty chair he found. How could she? 

 

How could she not? 

 

He had known that motherhood had been on Scully's 'Life agenda,' long before the abduction which had left her sterile. after all. Since she had been raised Catholic, he had assumed that, being as the Pontiff was against artificial fertilization, she had abandoned the dream of having children, just as he had done because of the injuries he had suffered in Vietnam. 

 

But Skinner had not reckoned with Scully's yearning for motherhood deepening an already developed schism from the church, and, compared to 1973, when he had been pronounced sterile, infertility treatments in 2001 were nothing short of miraculous. (The first successful in vitro fertilization happened in 1978.) 

 

After six years of mourning her inability to bear children naturally, Scully had apparently decided that if *science* could fulfill her dream of motherhood, then damn the Pope's decree and full speed ahead. And, just like that, Scully's dream deferred was no longer a dream lost. It all boiled down to money, commitment, time, and continued health.

 

Even without Scully's own eggs, since only her eggs had been taken, not her uterus, all she required was a compatible donor's ovum, which she could have used as is, or altered by replacing the donor's DNA with her own in order to bear a child with her unique genetic heritage. With Mulder's recovery of Scully's own eggs, the necessity of a onor was made moot, reducing the procedure to a straightforward in vitro fertilization and implantation, a much simpler, cheaper, and proven procedure, with a much higher success rate than donor-DNA splicing. 

 

No wonder Scully's natural desire to become a mother had reignited with the force of an exploding H-bomb! 

 

Of course, Scully *was* still Catholic, with Catholic sensibilities, so Skinner deduced that, if she'd had any ambitions of marrying Mulder, she would have broached the subject before conceiving a child with him --even if it wasn't the old fashioned way. That she had *not* married him spoke volumes about the nature of their relationship to Skinner, but then, he had known them for eight years. Too bad the OPC wouldn't be as sanguine about the matter.

 

Assuming Mulder weathered the fraternization storm --as impregnating one's underling was usually as bad a case of fraternizing as one could engender, despite, in this particular case, its not technically being a textbook example of fraternization. (The fact that Mulder was 'intimate' enough with Scully to provide such 'services' for her was the damning transgression.) On the face of things, it did not look good for Mulder's ethics but, over and beyond that, there was the F.B.I.'s policy of separating 'married' agents. Couples with children could not work in the same department; furthermore you couldn't put pregnant agents in the field. Period. This was as much for the preservation of the family unit as the well-being and morale of the rest of the department members. Bottom line, one way or another, Scully's having Mulder's baby meant no more Mulder and Scully on the X-Files.

 

Skinner hadn't the heart to point out this obvious fact to the over-joyed mother-to-be. Although, upon reflection, he wasn't entirely certain she didn't understand the career implications. In fact, it offered her the perfect way of disassociating herself from the madness that was Mulder and his quest while gaining for herself something that she had always wanted and had previously selflessly denied herself --then been denied because of her association with Mulder. 

 

Considering the way the two agents had been spatting of late, it seemed just a little too patent for comfort, and it made Skinner wonder if *Mulder* had thought through the ultimate consequences of his sperm donation, or whether he had merely caved in to Scully's desire to bear his child out of sheer guilt for the many losses she had suffered, personally and career-wise, since hitching herself to his dubious coat-tails. 

 

Of course, that was something only Mulder knew, and he wasn't in a position to share, but Skinner pondered how Mulder would cope without Scully to keep his feet on the ground. In the totality of Mulder's storied career, he had only truly gotten along with four 'partners:' Reggie Purdue, Diana Fowley, Scully, and Krycek, and three of those had been Consortium finds tailor-made to be compatible with him. 

 

Typical G-men were more like Skinner. They scoffed at the very notion of extraterrestrials. Skinner was hard pressed to think of a single agent in his aegis who could take Scully's place --let alone Mulder's! In the whole history of the F.B.I. there had only been two agents who had successfully worked the X-Files: Arthur Dales and Fox Mulder. Not that it would be *Skinner's* responsibility to find an agent capable of keeping the X-Files Department open and operational. That duty was up to Deputy Director Kersh, now.

 

Which was one more reason why Skinner couldn't force himself to be unconditionally happy for Scully. Her impending motherhood couldn't have come at a worse time for the X-Files. And that was not even factoring in Mulder's disappearance, which made the situation all the more precarious. 

 

//Dana, your timing stinks,// Skinner thought as he groped his soul for a single shred of confidence or optimism. He couldn't find any. Finally, disgusted with the bleakness of his own thoughts, he looked up and spied the two Lone Gunmen, virtual hats in hand. 

 

"How is she?" Langley asked as Skinner acknowledged their presence. 

 

"Is it--bad?" Frohike asked, stuttering nervously. His carnal obsession with Agent Scully was well documented.

 

Skinner considered how it must look from their point of view: he goes in to see her, comes out, and staggers into the nearest chair like a pole-axed bull. He shook his head. "Not for her. Mulder's a different story." 

 

The two gunmen looked at each other, as if, by comparing notes, they could decipher his meaning.

 

"Then...she'll be released soon?" Frohike hoped.

 

"Well, not tonight, I don't think. Not if they've admitted her in the first place," Skinner deduced.

 

"Exhaustion?" Langley speculated. "Dehydration? Food poisoning?"

 

Skinner pursed his lips. "If she wants you to know, she'll tell you. Just know that it's not--" he stopped himself. He was going to say it wasn't serious, but compared to the birth of a child he couldn't think of anything other than death, marriage, or divorce that was more life altering. "Well...it's perfectly natural, let me put it that way." 

 

Two pairs of eyebrows lifted and they exchanged glances again. Skinner could tell they were going to do their utmost to wrangle, sneak, or hack the information out of somebody or some thing, some way --and soon. Not his problem. Getting back to the Hoover was. He heaved a huge sigh. "I'm heading back to HQ." 

 

They nodded. Visiting hours were long over, and they weren't family, and if it truly wasn't anything to be worried about, there was no reason to stay and wring their hands. "We'll meet you there."

 

Skinner nodded and they headed out to their respective vehicles. 

 

The first thing Skinner did was go up to his office and sit at his desk. He had been thinking about how he was going to word his report ever since Mulder and Krycek disappeared. He could imagine the look on Kersh's face when this hit his desk tomorrow. He sighed. //Another day, another shit storm.// He wrote it up and put it in his out-box anyway. 

 

Kim could send it on its way tomorrow morning. He'd have until then to figure out how to defend his conclusions. Somehow, the fact that he was now in Mulder's shoes did not improve his mood.

 

It was only after he had done his duty that he allowed himself to check in on Byers. By that time, of course, the other two Gunmen had rejoined the office party. They were all three hard at work at their respective computer stations, having once more divided the work amongst them.

 

"Well. Anything?" he asked them generally.

 

They all three looked up at him with smiles on their faces.

 

"We can still track them," Byers announced happily. "We aren't able to pin point their exact location while they're travelling --they move too fast for us to do anything but get a lock on where they were when they entered or exited any particular satellite's footprint, but we can plot their general course from the anomolies they create in their wake. Which is to say: we haven't lost total contact with the ship. After it left Oregon, it flew to D.C., then started back-tracking. It's currently gliding along the Ohio basin, heading south west."

 

Walter jolted up. "It came to D.C.?" At their nods, he retreated to his office to check his messages. He only had one. He hit the play button.

 

"Hey. Got separated from Mulder the minute we boarded, but I'm free and clear and making like Confederate Pizza-man: he delivers. Have definitely quit smoking." An impersonal voice made murky noises in the background. "That's me. Gotta go." 

 

"End of messages," the artificial voice of his machine announced almost happily. 

 

Walter sighed. He knew he could have the lab boys filter out the foreground noises to enhance the background voices, which might possibly tell him where Alex was off to, but why bother? Alex was free of the aliens and Spender both, if he had interpreted the agent correctly. Skinner's only concern now was getting Mulder back. 

 

But not tonight. 

 

Walter retraced his steps and poked his head into his conference room. "I'm going home. You may as well pack it in, too. I'll be needing my conference room for official F.B.I. business now that I'm back. I know you have other priorities, but I'll pay you to keep tracking that ship --it may be our only hope of finding Mulder." 

 

The Gunmen looked at each other, silently communing, then Frohike, who seemed to be their official spokesperson, nodded. "We'll have to break our equipment down in stages if we want to be sure we don't lose the ship. Langley and I will go back to our place and set up our equipment, while Byers stays here and monitors the ship. Then, when Langley is set up and acquires the target, I'll come back and pick up Byers and the rest of our gear." 

 

Skinner nodded. "I'll alert security to let you back in on my way out," Skinner said as he backed into his office once more. He gave his out-box a last look, then headed for his car. Once alone in its confines, Skinner thought about Krycek, out and about and wandering the globe. How odd to be in Alex's confidence. How strangely reassuring to know Alex cared enough to let him know he was all right. It made Walter think about the location of Krycek's stash. On a sudden whim, he decided to check it out. It would, if nothing else, give him a secure place to stash Krycek's luggage.

 

Luckily, it was a 24 hour access facility --it would pretty much have to be to suit Alex's purposes. Walter used the key Alex had given him and shoved up the aluminum roll top door. He spotted a light switch and turned it on. He wasn't expecting to find so many boxes. He hauled Alex's suitcase inside, then paused to read the supposed contents scrawled across the mass of boxes in black marker in an unfamiliar hand.

 

There was a black leather sofa against one wall, and, stacked against it, were a stash of framed photographs. Without knowing quite why, Skinner sat at the other end of the sofa and pulled the pictures up one by one.

 

The largest picture looked like something out of a Thomas Kinkade catalog. It was a gingerbread shingled house with a white picket fence and a sprawling, slightly wild looking English-style garden which enveloped portions of the house and the fence surrounding it in a palette of purples and blues. Skinner recognized wisteria, lupine, columbine, blue flag iris, morning glories, myrtle, periwinkles, and rosemary among the flowers, as well as a flowering jacaranda tree, with its distinctive castanet-like seed pods. A black cat was elegantly posed on the white walk-way. 

 

The next photo, a European-style, whitewashed plaster house with a red tiled roof, was situated on a narrow cobbled --and very slanted-- street. A window box full of violets blazoned above the mail slot next to a cerulean blue door thats threshold was built like a wedge in order to make itself level on the hilly terrain. 

 

A third photo showed the top story of a yellow clapboard house with green wooden shutters and a brown shake roof. The picture behind it was an office-like structure that was all windows, row after row, floor after floor, all shielded by shutters that looked like giant Venetian blinds. The next house was turquoise blue, had a bicycle tipped over on the brick walk-way, and a calico cat chasing butterflies on the lawn. There was a picture of the Fox Theater in Atlanta, Georgia, with its distinctive tile pattern; one of Frank Lloyd Wright's concrete block houses, showing the distinctive cut-outs of the decorative blocks; and a Cajun stilt shack crammed between two towering cyprus trees right on the edge of the Bayou, where an old man sat in a rocking chair on the porch-like jetty, calmly smoking a corncob pipe, as if the gator snapping idly at the rowboat tied up to the shack's wooden deck was no more bother than a yappy dog. 

 

The last picture was of a row of whitewashed, thatched rooved buildings in some quaint Irish village. Skinner knew it was Ireland, because he could read the pub signs advertising the availability of Guiness and Harp ale. 

 

Skinner replaced the last picture to its place on the floor and glanced at the boxes again. There was one labeled 'books' jutting up from the end of the sofa, and since it was in arm's reach, he opened it. The first book he saw was a coffeetable art book called "Extreme Houses," thats cover featured a house built in the shape of a giant blue race car, complete with number. Skinner put the lid back without exploring further, wondering if Alex had a house fetish, or was just interested in architecture. 

 

A stack of boxes labeled 'clothes' caught his eye next, primarily due to the lack of dust, which proved that it had been opened recently. He stood and opened it, and was confronted by a lavender, bell-bottomed, jump suit with an attached three-inch-wide, silver nail head studded belt.

 

Skinner's jaw dropped. Alex was a disco dancer!? //No! It couldn't be!// He dug deeper, discovering a pristinely white, single breasted, hip-hugging, polyester leisure suit, and an assortment of flashy, French-cuffed silk shirts with detachable, ruffled dickies, and a couple pair of platform heeled shoes. 

 

Skinner pictured Alex in the leisure suit, finger-pointing his way across a psychedelically lit up dance floor. His head tipped back and he roared with laughter. When he could get himself back under control, he thought hard. He, too, had one of the horrible leisure suits stashed in a box somewhere amongst his belongings. It had been an enticement for him, when he had returned from Viet Nam. A reason to endure the endless hours of rehab. The carrot: a date with his then nurse. He had earned his date, and he had married his nurse. Despite their subsequent marital troubles, and her death six years ago in a car accident, Skinner had fond memories of the disco scene. It had been a balm to his soul after his near-fatal wounds, a refuge from the chilly reception, and ugly, anti-war, anti-soldier mood of the country. 

 

He hadn't thought Alex had been old enough to be a part of that scene. Then, again, Alex had been a precocious child. In fact, he'd been on his own since he was sixteen, and he'd mostly made his way by hustling --and he didn't mean the dance. 

 

Skinner fingered the silk shirts, trying to decide which color would look best on his Rat. He decided on Alex's favored color: black. The thought of Alex strutting his stuff in the black silk shirt, and white leisure suit --forget the awkward platform heels-- made Walter's dick hard. He glanced up at the roll-away door of the storage unit, then out to the empty corridor beyond. No, damnit, he was no exhibitionist, no matter what time of night it was, or how remote the possibility he'd be caught. He stood and shut the door, then, snatching out the black silk shirt, he sprawled onto the couch and unzipped his trousers. 

 

A few licks to slick up his palm, then a quick dive beneath his tighty whities, and he was out and pumping with one hand, while he rubbed the silk shirt over his face with the other. He imagined Alex and he dancing underneath a rotating, mirrored disco ball, strobe lights pulsing, music pounding. They were a tangle of limbs worthy of the Lambata, cloth-imprisoned erections grinding against each other as they teased each other in dance. 

 

So close. So hot. So --ah! Walter spewed his passion onto the concrete floor. //Oh, God! Oh, Alex!// He took a moment to compose himself, then tucked himself in, found the 'kitchen' box with the memo pad, wrote a short note for his lover to find, then put the boxes back into their respective places. Finally, black shirt tightly clenched in his fist, he shut off the lights, exited, shut and relocked the storage unit, before heading home for some well deserved rest.

 

#

 

The next morning Skinner was summoned into Deputy Director Kersh's office. He was surprised to find Scully there, as well. The hospital must have released her last night, after all. 

 

"A.D. Skinner, Agent Scully. Thanks for getting right over. I don't want to lose any time. We have one of our own missing and the only acceptable outcome is that we find him safe and alive. I'm sure the two of you agree," Kersh said. 

 

"That goes without saying, sir," Skinner said.

 

"Good. I'm thankful for your cooperation in the hunt for Mulder." 

 

"Our cooperation?" Scully echoed. "With due respect, there aren't two people better qualified to be directing this action, sir." 

 

"Right now, you and A.D. Skinner are the two primary witnesses to Mulder's disappearance. I want your statements taken ASAP," Kersh said smoothly. 

 

"You make us out to be suspects, sir," Scully said distastefully. 

 

Kersh stared at her, not replying. 

 

Skinner sighed. "Taken by whom?" 

 

"My task force leader on this case: Special Agent John Doggett," Kersh obligingly answered. "He's waiting to hear from you. Now." 

 

Recognizing a dismissal when they heard one, Skinner and Scully stood and started to leave. "Are we supposed to guess where?" Skinner asked. "Sir?"

 

Kersh looked offended. "Agent Gene Crane's office, down the hall." Skinner nodded and they started out the door again. "One more thing," Kersh called after them, as if it were an after thought, "anything leaves this building about aliens or alien abductions or any other nonsense that might cast the Bureau in a ridiculous light-- you can forget about looking for Agent Mulder. You'll both be looking for new jobs. That's all." 

 

A storm cloud settled over Skinner's face, but he managed to shut the door without slamming it, and they began walking down the hall toward Crane's office.

 

"I don't believe this," Scully griped. 

 

"This isn't about finding Mulder-- this is about Kersh covering the F.B.I.'s ass," Skinner explained.

 

"Why do I get the feeling they'd be happy if we never found him at all?"

 

Skinner halted outside the door labeled 'Special Squads.' "Look," he said sotto voce, "I saw what I saw. I have to make a statement in there. I'm not going to tell them it didn't happen." 

 

"Well, you heard Kersh. They don't want the truth. You give them the truth, and they'll hang you with it," Scully said. 

 

"They can hang me with a lie, too. I'm not going to sell Mulder out." 

 

"What good are you to Mulder if you give them the power to ruin your career?" Scully asked. Skinner had no answer for that. "We *will* find him," Scully said. "But in order to do that, we have to be employed."

 

Skinner sent his glance shoeward, still not quite convinced of the necessity of playing along, but not so opposed to the idea he felt like arguing the point. He had finally been motivated to get off the fence, and now Scully, of all people, was encouraging him to climb back on and stay put. In the final analysis, he concluded to himself, he was much too comfortable straddling fences. But, he was not about to let a little incipient soul rebellion cast caution to the wind. If *Scully* wanted him to keep a lid on it, he had to accept that she, with her superior knowledge of what they needed and what they were facing, should be allowed to call the shots.

 

The Special Squads bullpen turned out to be a rabbit warren of glassed-in cubicles. Chairs and benches were lined up along the outside walls, as if waiting, in some capacity, was integral to a special squad's existence. 

 

None of the other bullpens had actual offices. In fact, most of them didn't even warrant partitions to make separate cubicles. For probably the first time since accepting her assignment, Scully was glad the X-Files Department, which was actually classified as a Flying, or Special Squad, had its own separate office in the basement, among the files that were so integral to their existence.

 

Crane's office turned out to be the first office to the left of the entranceway. Agent Crane was, in fact, standing outside the office waiting for them. He stepped forward as they entered the bullpen. "Assistant Director, you can come on back with me. Agent Scully, I'll ask you to please wait here until we call you." 

 

Skinner wasn't surprised at the separation. Witnesses were routinely isolated to prevent them from colluding or homogenizing their statements. The wonder was that they had been allowed to speak with each other this long. 

 

Crane preceded Skinner into his office, but lingered to shut the office door. Skinner sat, more nervous than he would have normally been. He didn't like being the one in the hot seat. Doing what he usually did: treading carefully down the middle, was getting harder to do as the middle line was honed to a razor's edge. Between lying about Krycek and seeing the UFO, he felt as if his soles were bleeding, but he kept his balance. 

 

Suddenly, Crane jerked to his feet. Skinner turned around to see what had alarmed the other agent, in time to catch Scully storming out of the squad room. Skinner wondered what had happened to impel the usually buttoned-down agent to stomp out in a rage. Exercising his prerogative as an Assistant Director, Skinner ended the interview. Whatever he'd seen, or not seen, knew or surmised, did or was suspected of, enough was enough. He dismissed the surprised Crane and exited the office in search of Scully. 

 

When he searched the hallway in both directions without finding anyone who had seen her, he called her on his cell phone, deducing that she'd ducked into the Ladies' room. "Let's do lunch," He suggested. 

 

"It's only ten o'clock!" she squeaked. 

 

"It's lunchtime somewhere," he said.

 

She allowed as how that was true, pulled herself together, and quit the bathroom, where she had, in fact, been hiding out. Skinner called a Pizza joint, ordered two large pies, one meat, one veggie, buffalo wings, and a two liter bottle of soda pop, and had to stifle a laugh when he saw the horrified look on Scully's face. He added a large garden salad to the order, then headed out to his car. Scully rode shotgun, and they took advantage of the ride to the pizza joint to discuss their next move, now that they understood they were under investigation. Once Skinner picked up his order, he drove to the Lone Gunman's, who were more than happy to trade pizza for information.

 

"We weren't able to keep a lock on Mulder's UFO," Byers said apologetically. 

 

"But Langley was able to hack into JPL's Topex Poseidon data storage and pull up something just as tasty," Frohike promised. 

 

"You're looking at all the UFO activity in the Pacific Northwest just prior to Mulder's abduction," said Byers. 

 

"All these markers correspond with reported alien abductions. It's a regular shopping spree," Langley said. 

 

"So Mulder's abduction...?" Skinner asked. 

 

"--Was a UFO whistle stop on the way to the next pickup," Frohike finished. 

 

"Where's the UFO activity *after* Mulder's abduction?" Skinner asked. 

 

"Like we said, we can't be certain. Not from the data we're pulling down," Byers said.

 

Over pizza, the three explained the problem: They could only 'track' the UFOs by the disturbances they made in the transmissions of the satellites they were stealing data from. Since the planet wasn't covered completely by satellites, and they hadn't yet hacked into all the satellites that did exist, and since there wasn't a comprehensive global satellite array aimed at the 'outer space' surrounding Earth, and the Gunmen weren't actually controlling where the satellites they were hacked into were aimed at any particular moment, there were a lot of holes in their 'grid' where the UFOs could slip out of sight. Add to that the fact that they had yet to be able to distinguish the signature of one UFO from another, and it wasn't hard to understand why they had not only lost contact with the ship, but couldn't determine which of the six UFOs they had detected orbiting Earth was the one carrying Mulder.

 

With six possible ships to choose from, and no guarantee which of them was the correct one, or whether there were actually more than six ships that were taking turns being dormant and active, the Gunmen had decided to see if they could winnow down the possible candidates by studying past UFO activity, to see if they could discern a routine flight patterns that would help them identify Mulder's ship, in much the same way Commander Riker claimed to be able to predict the maneuvers of Captain Picard when he was under the influence of the Borg. But it was all speculative. There was only one way to know for certain what a particular UFO had Mulder on board --and that was to find it, board it, and recover Mulder. A tall order under any circumstances.

 

In the meantime, they were expanding their grid as fast as was humanly possible by hacking into as many satellite centers as they could --including SETI's radar dishes and the data bases of all the major astrophysics telescope observatories, which were the only ones pointed outward, toward space, and were, therefore, the only ones giving them a view 'off-planet'-- and planting a virus that would search for the telltale anomalus readings the UFOs produced, and flag each 'hit' with an e-mail to a dedicated, password secure web site where the forwarded information was plotted onto a world map along with a coded log of the location, time, and satellite or telescope database from which it originated.

 

In the meantime, in addition to all the hacking and infecting and map plotting, they were keeping their ears pricked for any UFO sightings being reported to known UFO-centric organizations, like MUFON, and hoping that the types of abductions reported would help them determine which UFO was the one holding Mulder. 

 

They promised to alert Skinner and Scully if the UFO they had currently designated their prime candidate for Mulder's ship came to rest long enough for them to launch an intercept mission that had even a remote chance of successfully contacting the aliens.

 

That was the best they could do, and the most comfort they could provide, but since they were doing everything humanly possible to find Mulder without creating an international incident or inviting interference by their own or a hostile government, or the Consortium itself, the Fibbies couldn't fault the trio's performance, so they finished up the remainder of their lunch and headed back to the Hoover.

 

Dana got no farther from Skinner's car than the door of the underground garage's elevator before she decided to take the rest of the day off. "I won't be able to get any real work done with all those other agents crawling all over the X-Files office," she told Skinner, not bothering to add that she didn't feel like being interrogated by Doggett or Crane after the incident in the Special Squads' office. 

 

"You can't put off the interrogation forever. Not if you have any hope of eliminating yourself as a suspect and joining the search team," Skinner said, not fooled by her reticence for a second. 

 

Scully gave him a disgruntled look but eventually she sighed, admitting defeat. "Tomorrow," she promised. "Bright and early."

 

Skinner smiled and nodded approval. The world wouldn't end if Special Agent Dana Scully played hooky for a day. He watched as she made an about face and sought out her car. She was inside and fleeing the parking lot before Skinner caught an elevator and punched the button for the fifth floor. 

 

As soon as he got into his office, Skinner had Kim pull John Doggett's personnel file up on her computer, (Walter was not really keen on using computers, and so he had never requisitioned one for his own use). Kim printed the file out so Skinner could take it back into his own office to peruse, getting him out of her hair.

 

Skinner mulled over Doggett's file. Doggett had been born in a place called "Democrat Springs," Georgia, but had spent his formative years in Atlanta. He had been a Marine, had seen action in Beruit, and was part of the forces that had had their barracks blown up in '83. Once he'd mustered out with an honorable discharge, he'd joined the N.Y.P.D., gotten married, and had a son, Luke. 

 

Luke had been kidnapped and murdered when he was eight-years-old. Doggett's marriage had fallen apart in the aftermath of that tragedy, and he had joined the F.B.I. in 1995, a few years later. He had lived in Falls Church, Virginia since his reassignment to the Special Squads Department three years ago. 

 

Doggett had worked his way up to the rank of Police Sergeant before the tragedy that had torn his life apart. His F.B.I. evaluations described him as down-to-earth, practical, pragmatic, somewhat sullen, but definitely driven. The man who had murdered his son was still at large, and it was not hard to deduce that catching the bastard was the primary motive behind his decision to join the F.B. I. 

 

All in all, he was the sort of agent Skinner loved: the hard boiled, no-nonsense, by-the-book 'Joe Friday' type. This sort solved a problem methodically, doggedly, and unimaginatively. Exactly the *wrong* type to put on Mulder's trail. 

 

Skinner didn't doubt but that Doggett had never colored outside the lines in his entire life. His kind of mentality wouldn't buy a UFO story on a bet, and that, Skinner was convinced, was precisely why Doggett had been put in charge of this investigation.

 

Skinner shook his head. Mulder was the sort of child who would have started out coloring inside the lines as a way of garnering attention and acceptance. Once said approval had palled, however, he would daringly cross the boundary lines in order to explore all his options. He would finally decide that coloring outside the lines was a far more satisfying activity, as a talent for upsetting the Powers That Be seemed to be hard-wired into his DNA, and he would dedicate his life to coloring outside the lines from then on, come Hell or highwater when, in truth, no earthly crayon could have colored the page as vividly as his own imagination, and he would have preferred to color the picture solely with his imagination. 

 

Skinner smiled indulgently, continuing the analogy. Dana wouldn't have minded coloring inside the lines, but she would have insisted on using fine tipped colored felt pens instead of crayons. Crayons were rough and crude, and lacking subtlety. Dana wanted to define herself quickly, precisely, and in depth.

 

Alex, on the other hand, Skinner decided, would have colored the entire page, inside and outside the lines, in an attempt to please whomever had set him to the task. He was the kind who would copy the page before coloring it, just so he could do variation after variation without spoiling the original pattern.

 

In the interests of fair play, Skinner finished the analogy. *He* might have let a stray stroke or two cross the lines once or twice in his life, but he, like Doggett, had pretty much been an inside the lines kind of guy. Ever since his ascent to this Assistant Directorship, however, he had found himself more and more concerned with bolstering the lines themselves, rather than actually coloring in or outside of them. He frowned. Since he'd become involved with Alex, there was a little more color in his life...but it was all outside the lines, leaving the figures within shrunken, sterile, white voids inescapably ladened with heavy black shrouds. 

 

//No wonder Sharon wanted a divorce,// he thought gloomily. He hadn't realized that the job was sucking out the bright, sparkling aspects of his personality. He had always considered the sacrifices he'd made the price one paid for advancement. Now, he realized, he had paid too high a price. Too late for Sharon. But maybe not too late for Alex. Problem was, he didn't know how to reverse the damage. He'd lived this way for so long, out of necessity, that change seemed foreign and scary and beyond his auto-enfeebled powers. 

 

He sighed. //A problem for another time, Old Man. Getting Mulder back is the priority, now.// 

 

Walter was pretty sure they would need Alex's help, though. Which brought him right back to the state of their relationship. //What to do, what to do?// 

 

#


	10. Chapter 10

#

CHAPTER TEN

#

"It is a wonderful feeling when you discover some evidence to support your beliefs." --Unknown

#

Dulles International Airport., Washington, D.C. 

Monday, June 11th

#

 

Alex dragged himself off the plane and into the terminal. He had been going almost non-stop since he'd left D.C. eleven days ago. He'd been in sixteen countries in those eleven days, passing on his little canisters of viable alien DNA to his contacts, making inroads on a few of his international bank accounts, and --he frowned-- playing butt boy for his brother, Vassily, yet again. 

 

Alex supposed he should be glad his other contacts hadn't made him wait until their scientists could verify the authenticity of his offering --or had men on hand willing to fuck him for recreational purposes while they waited. It would have been a long, arduous trek, in that event. But Alex hadn't been in any position to decline --quite literally! 

 

Vassily had reminded Alex, while Alex was getting his hole punched by Vassily's enthusiastic lieutenant, that he, Vassily, had taken Alex in, given him sanctuary when he'd said he'd needed it, only to have Alex betray his trust and generosity by stealing the vaccine and Dmitri, the only living witness to the rebel alien's destruction of one of the Colonist alien's human 'lighthouse' sites, (the places they gathered their implanted humans before they picked them up for testing), right out from under his nose. Vassily was staunchly nationalist. He didn't particularly care if anyone outside Mother Russia survived the alien invasion or not, and the betrayal, especially by someone as lowly as he considered Alex to be, had been one of the most humiliating episodes of his adult life. 

 

Alex understood Vassily's nationalism; he couldn't care less if the Russians died en masse tomorrow, so long as his ass wasn't among the dead and the United States was still standing. The difference being, that if the United States' population *was* destroyed, and Russia's people survived, Alex wouldn't feel as if he had failed his mission. Which is why he had the temerity to return to Russia: he wasn't looking to save anyone in particular, he was looking for results, and, as he had explained to Vassily, unlike the other scientists involved, the Russians had actually already successfully developed a useful defense against the oilien worms, so he was anxious to see what they could do with their very own, secure allotment of Purity Control. It reassured Vassily *and* his government to learn that even the vaunted United States hadn't come up with a viable vaccine --until Alex had stolen theirs and given the Americans a solid base from which to launch their new, improved experiments. 

 

It was, in fact, that bit of shared news, plus Alex's assurances that he would continue to provide them with whatever aid he could, including the latest project results from any of the other countries Alex was dealing with --and he was dealing with almost everyone but the Africans and the Chinese-- which had won Alex's release from Vassily's tender mercies --once the tissue sample proved to be one hundred percent alien, of course. In the end, it had only cost Alex a few extra days of travel time, and since he really couldn't blame Vassily for being either cautious or mad, he let the matter of his own rape slide and got back down to business, which, in that instance, meant hopping the first flight out of St. Petersburg for Heathrow, England. 

 

Alex had started his trip with twenty-four canisters. He'd given four to Marita before he left. He'd made a stop-over in Ottawa, to drop a canister off there, then continued on to London, where he stashed eleven canisters in various Heathrow airport lockers before meeting his English contact and dipping into his cash reserves to pay for the next leg of his adventure. 

 

From Heathrow he'd taken the Brit-rail to Dover and crossed over to Le Havre, France. Then he'd taken the Euro-rail to Antwerp, Belgium, then Stuttgart, Germany. Then he'd taken Lufthansa to to Kiev, Ukraine; Aeroflot to Tbilisi, Georgia, then St. Petersburg, Russia where he met up with Vassily with the last canister in his possession. That had been day four. 

 

Once he'd gotten out of Russia, four days later, he picked up the remaining canisters from Heathrow and immediately headed out, via El Al to Tel Aviv, Israel, then British Airways, to New Delhi, India. From India he went to Singapore, took Air Malaysia to Bangkok, Thailand, then Cathay Pacific to Tokyo, Japan and Perth, Australia. Then it was on to Sao Paulo, Brazil, on Air New Zealand, and, lastly, Caracas, Venezuela, before returning to Dulles International Airport via United Airlines. He landed a little before five p.m., D.C. time, on day ten. His carry on held nothing more than dirty laundry, and he was desperate for a hot shower, but, before he did anything else, he called Walter.

 

#

 

Walter Skinner was just putting his last file into the 'out' box when the phone rang. He glared at it a moment, wondering if he should answer it. He had gotten word from the Lone Gunmen just a few hours ago to pay a visit, and bring Scully, and he didn't want to bog himself down with F.B.I. business. On the other hand, he supposed a few minutes wouldn't hurt. He picked up the receiver. "A.D. Skinner here," he greeted.

 

"Hey, Bear, I'm home," Alex said in best sexy growl.

 

Skinner's penis twitched. "Val! I'm glad you're back. I was just heading out to see Mulder's friends. You remember the ones? I think we could use your input. I'm buying dinner. Pizza. But, whatever you want, I'll get plenty of it."

 

"Ooh! A nice Hawaiian pie would go good. But one of those luscious black bottom pies would be even better. And a hot French dip sandwich with sweet-hot mustard. And a Sonic cherry lime soda."

 

Skinner guffawed. "Sounds like you're going out to starve, as per usual. OK. You just get yourself to the party. I'll bring the eats."

 

Yeah. OK. See you soon, Bear."

 

Walter hung up, and tried to wipe the grin off his face. He called Scully to let her know he was on his way out, and that "their special friend" had called, and that he had invited him to the meeting, then he called in his pizza order so the pies would have time to cook before he got to the shop, called the Lone Gunmen to alert them that Krycek would be making an invited appearance, in case Alex managed to get to the Gunmen's place before Scully, then hustled his butt out the door before somebody else called.

 

Walter picked up the dessert, drinks, and sandwiches first, then, once he had everything else in hand, he picked up the pizzas and Scully's salad and headed for Baltimore. 

 

Scully had already arrived, but Krycek had yet to show. Walter pounded on the door. He barely had time to register the peephole being used than he heard the sound of locks being opened. //Nothing like the promise of free eats to make that door fly open,// Skinner thought wryly. 

 

"Where's the pizza?" Langley asked as the door swung open. 

 

Walter jerked a thumb to his car. "I'll need some help carting it all in." 

 

"Oh, man! Jimmy!" Langley and Jimmy Bond trotted out to the car to help Skinner bring in the three pizzas, six sodas, seven French dip sandwiches, a black bottom and chocolate cream pie, lone salad and coffee, which was enthusiastically unladed onto the nearest table. Frohike relocked the seven locks on the door and trotted to the de facto dining table in their wake. 

 

"Oh, man! Pineapple on a pizza? Barfalonous!" Langley cried as he opened the top box.

 

"Pineapple?" Scully ventured. "You got a Hawaiian pizza? Ooh! I *love* Hawaiian pizzas!" She looked mournfully at her hips, then her salad, then the pizza, then her salad, then her hips. Her mouth set into a thin, stern line. "Pass me a slice of that pie! --Just a little one!" she immediately qualified. Langley scooped out the smallest piece in the box, laid it on a paper plate, and passed it over to Scully, who beamed at it as if she'd been given a certificate of merit from God himself. 

 

"Anybody else?" Langley asked.

 

"Yeah, I'll give it a try," Walter said gamely. Langley dispensed another slice as if he were handling a dead rat, then shut and shoved the unwanted pie off to one corner and opened the next box. "Ah! Supreme! What's in the third box?"

 

"Vegetarian," Walter replied. 

 

Langley nodded. Knowing his cohorts, he dished up two slices of supreme to each of them but Byers, who got two slices of the veggie pizza. "So, what's in the bags, man?" Langley asked around a mouthful of pizza. 

 

"Alex wanted a French Dip sandwich, so I figured I'd treat you all to one, too," Walter replied. 

 

"And the dessert?" Frohike asked, as he peered into the pink pastry boxes.

 

"Alex has a sweet tooth," Walter allowed. "He wanted black bottom pie, but I prefer plain chocolate cream, so I got both." 

 

The Gunmen and Jimmy quickly snatched up their sandwiches, although none of the Gunmen seemed the least bit interested in actually eating them, as they squirreled them away in pockets, jackets, and nearby shelves for another day.

 

"Mr. Skinner, you are a Prince among men," Frohike said, as his sandwich disappeared into the seeming ether. "I think I can safely speak for all my colleagues when I say you are forever welcome in our abode and, if there is anything you need that falls within our realm of expertise, feel free to ask, even if it doesn't have anything to do with Mulder."

 

"Oh. yeah!" Jimmy seconded, as he unwrapped his sandwich and performed a distinctly different sort of disappearing act on it.

 

Krycek arrived fifteen minutes later.

 

Walter had to glare at the Gunmen before they opened the door, and Krycek didn't help matters when he leered at the trio as if they were trophy animals and he was a Great White Hunter.

 

Then Skinner pointed Alex at the pile of food which had been set aside for him, and the problem solved itself as Alex pounced on the booty like a black leather panther, all interest in teasing the Gunmen fled.

 

From the look on his face when he lifted the lid and discovered an unexpected bounty of fourteen slices of Canadian bacon and pineapple pizza, you would have thought he'd won a Power-ball lottery. He didn't neglect his beef sandwich or his dessert, either, and he was still happily slurping and munching on these and his cherry-lime soda when the others moved to the next table over, where an impressive array of marked up maps had been spread, and got down to business.

 

"These are our accumulated records of suspected UFO activity since Mulder's abduction," Frohike explained. "The data related to the ship we think Mulder is on is color coded in red. Grey areas depict areas without satellite coverage. Loss and reestablishment of contact with the target UFO is noted with red stars. Known flight path segments of undetermined craft are in brown, and the blue and green lines represent two other ships' flight paths that we have been able to piece together in a fairly reliable fashion --once again, breaks and reentries from 'dead zones' are marked with the appropriate colored stars. The arrows indicate the ships' headings at the time of the scans." 

 

Scully looked at map after map of multi-colored squiggles, stars, and notations, which looked to her like nothing so much as a chaotic circus full of dancing fleas. She made a disparaging noise. "I think this is a waste of time." 

 

"No, it's not," Skinner disagreed. "Just concentrate on the red line." 

 

"I *am!*" Scully exclaimed, "and what I'm seeing is activity all over the southwestern United States." 

 

"That's right," Frohike said. "But, if you'll notice, the ship began circling this five state area, and now its circles have tightened to this tri state area. We calculate that within the next two scans it will narrow its turn axis to a sixty mile radius. Obviously, they're looking for something, something specific, and they're just about to find it. If we wait until they actually pinpoint it and land before you head out to the area, you won't get there before the ship takes off again." 

 

"If Mulder *is* on that ship, this is where he is now," Byers said, circling the aforementioned one hundred twenty mile diameter circle.

 

Scully squinted at the spot. "Okay. Say it's true," Scully allowed. "Say we get there and the ship *has* landed. How do you propose we get Mulder off the ship?" 

 

The three techs looked at each other, at the map, at the floor, the lights, and, finally, at Krycek. 

 

Scully turned her gaze to the spy as well. 

 

Krycek looked at Walter. "Yeah, OK, I could contact them, try to talk to them, but that doesn't mean they'll let Mulder go."

 

Skinner nodded. "At least, you could find out *why* they're holding Mulder. That they aren't hurting him. That we'll get him back --unharmed-- at some point in the not too distant future."

 

Krycek sighed and nodded. "Yeah. I could probably get that much out of them."

 

"While Krycek's doing that, you and Skinner could move their prospective abductee to uh, someplace they'd be safe," Byers proposed, unwilling to admit he didn't trust Krycek enough to let him go on the mission alone.

 

"Oh, great! And just how are we supposed to figure out who that someone is? We can't take EEGs of everybody inside that hundred and twenty mile area!" Scully groused as she swiped the area in question with the back of her fingers. Then she dipped down to examine the map more carefully. "Do you have a detail map of this area?"

 

Langley handed her a Thomas Guide. Scully glanced at the cover to make sure it was current, then flipped to the proper page. "It can't be!" she said. 

 

"What?" Skinner prompted. The others looked at her expectantly. 

 

Scully pointed at a spot on the large map about forty miles inside the ship's current perimeter, "That's the power plant where we lost Gibson Praise."

 

Alex choked on his sandwich. He swallowed manfully, dumping the sandwich in the pizza box and wiping his hands on a paper napkin before crossing over to peer at the maps himself. 

 

Scully beamed. "If they *are* collecting people with mental profiles like Mulder's, Gibson Praise would be the Einstein of finds."

 

"Yeah, but just because you 'lost' him at that power plant, doesn't mean he's still in the area," Skinner said. "In fact, since you 'lost him,' you've no guarantee he's even in the country."

 

"He's in the area, alright," Krycek confessed. "He's in a school for the deaf in Flemington. Just about at the center of this search perimeter. The UFO is right on top of him. We've got to get out there. Now!"

 

Scully turned her flintiest stare on the spy. "How the Hell did you know where Gibson was?"

 

"I was the one who paid his tuition to the school. It's a board and care facility, as well as a regular day school. He's paid up all the way through High School. After the old men took out his God Module and he still escaped them, they were of two minds as to what to do with him. I was sent to find him, to bring him in for testing. The tests determined that he had lost his ability to read minds, which rendered him harmless, but they decided that, rather than kill him outright, they'd place him somewhere out of the way, where they could monitor his recovery, someplace he'd feel safe, where they could watch him without spooking him, on the off chance he had the ability to regenerate, like the shape-shifters. They left the choice of facility up to me. I picked Flemington."

 

"I'll book the flight," Skinner said, and he pulled out his cell phone. 

 

Langley held up his hand. "Allow me, man, I can save you boo coo bucks," he said, mis-pronouncing 'beaucoup' with Philistine enthusiasm.

 

Skinner considered the offer. He wasn't sure if Langley intended to hack them tickets, or if he was going to use an Internet service to get discount tickets. On the other hand, they needed to get out to Flemington ASAP. "Do it."

 

Langley leered as if Skinner had just given him a license to print money. He laced his fingers together, cracked his knuckles, and scooted over to his personal computer. 

 

"How are we going to explain our sudden absence to Kersh?" Scully asked. 

 

"Where and when I go on vacation is none of his business," Skinner replied. 

 

"He's *my* reporting superior, though," Scully said. "I have to OK my vacations through him."

 

"Then I suggest you find a maiden aunt who's recently died," Skinner suggested, "and take emergency family leave."

 

The others looked at Skinner as if he'd grown another head. He harrumphed. "Dire times call for dire measures," he rationalized.

 

Scully fought a grin. "Of course, sir. One dead aunt, coming up."

 

#

 

Langley got them three tickets on the next flight to Phoenix, Arizona, a red eye special which gave them five hours to get home, pack, and get to the airport for the midnight flight out. 

 

Alex gathered up his food booty and hustled out to his rental as if he, too, had places to be and things to do, even going so far as to head off in a different direction than his accomplices. That didn't last long, however, and it wasn't long before he was headed back to Crystal City. He arrived a few minutes after Skinner, phoned, to let Skinner know he was on the way up, then dragged all his goodies, and his dirty laundry, up to Skinner's condo. 

 

Skinner let him in, locked the door behind him, checked his watch, bussed Alex on the lips with a polite: "Make yourself to home; I've got to pack," and trotted purposefully upstairs. 

 

Alex threw his dirty laundry in to wash, stripped and added the clothes he was wearing to the washing machine, grabbed his dop kit and food and went into the kitchen. He put his food in with the rest of the leftovers Skinner had already stashed in the refrigerator, then headed upstairs to the master bedroom, where Walter was check-listing the contents of his suitcase, which was laid open on the bed. It looked very businesslike. Walter closed the suitcase up.

 

"Is that all you're taking?" Alex inquired as he leaned against the door jamb.

 

Walter looked up and his eyes went wide at the sight of the naked spy. "Uhh....," he grunted inarticulately.

 

Alex grinned. He liked it when Skinner lost the capacity to speak. "C'mon, Vlad, you don't *really* want to hike around the Arizona desert in a business suit, do you?"

 

"Ahh...--I used to do it all the time when I was a field agent."

 

Alex smirked. "Twenty years ago. When you were young, eager, and acclimatized. Loosen up, eh? I'll let you shower with me if you promise to wear jeans and hiking boots on the plane," he tempted, stroking his hand down his torso to his groin. 

 

Walter's eyes followed the motion of Alex's hand. When Alex cupped his balls and gave them a squeeze, the locks of the suitcase clicked open very loudly. Walter flang the suitcase lid up and flew to his dresser. He yanked out the bottom drawer, snatched up a pair of jeans, and threw them in the general direction of the suitcase, then he grabbed his tie and started loosening the knot. Clothes began to fly off his person as if by magic.

 

Alex smiled and sauntered into the en suite bathroom. He turned on the taps, wanting the water to be pleasantly warm, not scalding hot, set his dop kit on the counter, took out a condom and lube, tested the shower spray with his hand, and climbed in, not bothering to shut the glass shower door, nor take off his prosthetic. Walter would be in soon, and his prosthetic was waterproof. He would handle the upcoming water sports better with the extra limb. 

 

He set the condom and lube in the combination wash cloth rack and soap dish insert that made a concave niche in the tile wall, wet one of the dark blue wash clothes hanging on the shower door rail, lathered it up, and moved to the back of the tub to give Walter room to get in before he started scrubbing himself. 

 

Walter chucked his shoes, socks, and pants before following Krycek into the bathroom. The last item of apparel, his underwear, made a quick exit beside the bathroom hamper. He stepped to the glassed in shower/tub, not able to stifle his impulse to check the floor for water. There wasn't as much splash-out as he expected, a quick swipe with his foot steering the bath mat took care of it. 

 

Walter's head ducked into the shower before the rest of him and was greeted with the sight of Alex bent over, scrubbing his legs, his luscious rear end facing Walter. The shower spray danced off Alex's back like a thousand little, licking tongues. It also pooled into rivulets that trickled off his skin following the curve of his body. A few of those rivulets ran from his spine, through the slight valley of his dimpled buttocks, and cascaded down his crack to tease his hole with a wet stream that paused in the slight depression between his balls before they followed that final curve to the underside of the ball sac. From there they coalesced into two dripping streams that sprayed the inside of his thighs and calves whenever he jiggled, or into space, to patter on the tub floor. 

 

Alex, as if knowing he had an audience at last, ran his hand up between his legs and soaped his balls, then his crack. He let the foamy bubbles sluice down his skin, following the path of the water back down his crack and thighs, then his fingers inched up his crack and rubbed his hole. Circle, poke. Circle, poke. Jab, thrust. Dip, spread, poke, spread.

 

"Oh, shit!" Walter swayed as the all the blood in his body rushed to his dick in two seconds flat, making his penis spring up like an eager retriever on point.

 

Alex grinned and waggled his butt. His hole was open, pink and inviting. "See something you want, big boy?"

 

"Oh, yeah!" Walter climbed into the tub, shut the glass door, grabbed another wash cloth, lathered it up, and scrubbed Alex's back as if he were stripping old varnish off a table top, using long up and back stokes. He let his arms slide off the flat of Alex's back to his hips, then up to his armpits, then underneath to Alex's chest. He soaped Alex's breasts, teased his nipples until they were hard, puckered nubs, then, instead of delving lower to Alex's groin, he came back up to Alex's spine and squeezed the lather onto his ass. He let his finger follow the suds trail between Alex's butt cheeks, into that gaping hole, teasing it.

 

"Oh, yeah!" Alex cried, as Walter's finger, blunted by soapy terry cloth, dipped along his ass crack and went spelunking in that fleshy tunnel. Scrub, scrub, scrub. Walter ditched the cloth and ran his fingers along the soapy crack. First one, then two, then three fingers dipped into Alex's hole, widening, stretching, preparing him for the main event. "Lube and condom in the soap dish," Alex grunted.

 

"You're a real boy scout, aren't you?" Walter smiled as he grabbed the little foil packets, shielded them with his body, and opened them up. 

 

"Just call me 'Bruce Willis'," Alex moaned as Walter slicked his hole. 

 

"Ready?"

 

"Yeah! Do it!"

 

Walter thrust his penis into Alex's slicked channel, sinking balls to ass in a single motion. "Turn around." 

 

Alex straightened and let Walter carefully trade places with him, then Walter bent him down again, angling him so the spray of the shower beat Alex's ass and made a little river in his crack.

 

Alex braced himself against the wall and Walter drew back, intoxicated by the sight of the water running down Alex's ass and dividing around his own penis. He thrust forward and the water sprayed up as if from a whale's blowhole. "Oh, yeah!" Back and forth, and back and forth, Walter made the water leap. Harder. Higher. Alex reached for his cock, but Walter batted his hand away. Moments later, Walter bucked and roared. He grabbed Alex by the waist and laid on him, craning his head towards Alex's ear.

 

"One of these days I want to come in you and feel my hot cum pumping into your ass and running out, like the water. Oh, Val, you are so hot when you're wet. I want to suck you off."

 

"Oh, yes, please!"

 

Walter straightened and pulled out of Alex's ass. He stripped off the condom, letting it drift towards the drain as he knelt to suckle his lover's cock. His hands kept roaming, going from Alex's hips, to steady him, up his sides to tickle him, and back down to hold the base of his cock and fondle his balls while he made circles with his head to tease the stiff organ with his palate and tongue. 

 

Alex leaned back till he was braced against the side wall, back arched towards Walter's busy mouth. Walter hummed every time Alex jerked or moaned, squeezing on Alex's glans as if trying to swallow him whole, then tonguing him back towards his lips. Finally, he closed his mouth to trap the glans with his teeth in an almost threat. Although Walter never actually touched Alex's shaft with his teeth, he did tug it frequently, slamming the corona against the flat of his teeth and shaking his head with a growl, as if to say 'I may be the one on my knees, boy, but *you* are at *my* mercy.' 

 

Alex gripped the little wash cloth rack that was part of the soap dish and keened, his interest ratcheting up at this show of dominance. It was titillating, if scary, knowing that only Walter's strict control in the throes of passion separated pleasure from a loss too horrific to contemplate. It made supporting himself on his wobbly, sex weak knees seem as titanic an accomplishment as surviving the 1906 San Francisco earthquake. 

 

Then Walter began to suck the silky knob as if to mark it as his own, working his tongue like a hungry infant. He continued to tease Alex's glans till Alex's balls drew up then, with a mighty suck, Walter thrust Alex's entire shaft into his mouth and swallowed, plunging his finger up Alex's hole to rake his prostate at the same instant. 

 

The combination of constricting throat muscles on his tortured cock and stimulation of his prostate made Alex shriek and cum. The little wash cloth bar snapped off in his hand with a mighty ker-crack! as Alex jerked to his toes and began spasming back and forth in Walter's mouth. 

 

Walter grinned, drawing back to tease the spurts of cum jetting from his lover with his tongue while his hands milked his shaft till every last drop was wrung out of him. With a final appreciative hum, he let Alex's cock pop out of his mouth like a cork out of a pop gun. "Hmm, pineapple," he smiled. 

 

Alex collapsed onto the tub floor with a whimpering sigh. "Holy crap! You're getting really good at that, Vlad. I'm so wrung out I could sleep for a week." He handed Walter the remnant of the plastic wash cloth bar. "I owe you a soap dish." 

 

Walter smiled at the compliment. He reached over and shut off the water, which was turning cold. "No rest for the wicked. We can't take the chance of missing the flight." 

 

"Yeah. You're right. And if I don't get downstairs and turn the laundry over, I'll be taking the flight in wet clothes."

 

They managed to drag themselves out of the tub and dry off. Walter went out to his bed to dress, while Alex stumped downstairs to put his clothes into the dryer. He put on the only thing that hadn't gone into the wash, his leather jacket, and made himself a nest with one of the Afghans on Walter's couch. By the time his wash was dried and packed, it was time to leave for the air port. 

 

"You want to take my rental in? I'll let you drive," Alex suggested.

 

Walter looked suspicious. "And what will you be doing while I'm driving?"

 

Alex looked angelic. "Eating a slice of pie."

 

Walter shook his head. "You are insatiable."

 

Alex smiled. "Yup. And that's only one of my finer qualities." He batted his eyelids audaciously.

 

Walter snorted. He couldn't argue with that. "Grab your pie, and let's hit the road, Jack."

 

#


	11. Chapter 11

#

CHAPTER ELEVEN

#

"I am seeking only to face realities and to face them without soft concealments" --Woodrow Wilson.

#

Gas Station, Dewey, Arizona (20 miles east of Flemington)

Tuesday, June 12th, 8 a.m.

#

 

The flight into Phoenix's Sky Harbor airport was uneventful. Langley's tickets had been for first class, because he reasoned --rightly-- that that section of the plane would not be filled to capacity during a midnight flight. 

 

Considering some of the flights Skinner had been on of late, it was paradise, so he didn't mind the four hours air time it took to reach their destination, and one hour on the ground to get their luggage and rent an SUV. 

 

As soon as they landed, they called the Gunmen to get the last known location of the ship. It had stopped moving during their flight out. Alex wrote down the landing coordinates, then he directed Skinner, who was driving, to a private residence where he acquired an ATV, and, after he and Skinner wrestled it into the cargo hold, they headed out in search of Gibson Praise, Dana riding shotgun with the Thomas Guide, and Alex in the back keeping the trike company. 

 

At eight-thirty a.m. they stopped at a filling station between Dewey and Prescott, which, according to the map, was twenty miles east of Flemington. The atmosphere in the SUV by this point was only slightly less heated than the core of an active volcano. Uncertainty, (Gibson might be abducted before they got to the school), combined with Alex's inability to remember exactly where the school was, or how to get there had created an atmosphere so tense, the fact that all three of them were armed was becoming an invitation to homicide. It wasn't surprising, therefore, that they abandoned the car as if fleeing a stream of lava, justifying it by needing a restroom, walking off a cramp in their legs, and asking the attendant for directions. 

 

After relieving himself, Skinner went inside to get directions to the school, which he paid for, informally, with a fill-up and some bottled water. It wasn't likely to be the hottest day on record, but it was already over ninety degrees Fahrenheit, and he was well aware of the dangers of dehydrating in the dry desert heat, after his stint as an agent here, decades ago. 

 

Scully, in the meantime, went back out to the vehicle but, rather than climb back inside, she folded her arms and stared out into the desert, the better to ignore Krycek, who, at a nod from Skinner, started pumping the gas. 

 

A black helicopter flew overhead, directing Scully's eye to a mirage-like disturbance near a cliff a ways off across the open desert. She focused on it as if she could catch the rippling images and paste them into a coherent mental landscape. 

 

Alex focused on the helicopter. "Crap!" He looked towards the gas station's mini-mart door. 

 

Walter had his purchases in hand and was on his way out. "Get in the car," he told Dana tersely.

 

Dana looked at Krycek like he was a bug but, faced with his answering gaze, she complied without comment.

 

Alex finished pumping the gas, but, instead of getting into the car, he went to the back of the vehicle and opened up the clamshell-style rear door. He grappled the ATV onto the pavement and grabbed the helmet off the handlebars.

 

Skinner, seeing him suit up, hurried out, his hands full of water bottles. 

 

Alex leaned out and grabbed one of the water bottles, stowing it in his jacket. "Get it in gear, Wally, I think the cavalry just arrived."

 

"Hm?" Walter queried monosyllabically, getting into the vehicle and putting the key into the ignition anyway. 

 

Alex retreated to the back of the SUV, groping for his carry-on, and the GPS unit therein. "A particular kind of helicopter just flew over: all black. The kind the old men like to fly. Call me psychic, but I think it's heading for the school."

 

"You think Spender sent someone to grab Gibson?" Dana asked.

 

"Huh! No." Alex snorted, not bothering to explain that he had taken Smoky out of the game permanently. "But that doesn't mean someone else connected to the project can't have raised a flag on the kid. You need to get out there, ASAP. I'll try to contact the ship." 

 

"Will do," Skinner acknowledged. "We'll meet you back here if we can. If not, well, keep your phone on."

 

"Right." Alex pocketed the GPS unit and his cell phone, and shut the rear door. 

 

Skinner tore out, leaving Alex to find the coordinates the Gunmen had given them using the GPS unit strapped to the ATV's handlebars. 

 

"The gas station attendant said that there's a school for deaf children right up near that cliff. I'm betting there aren't that many deaf schools in the area, especially not inside the Flemington city limits, so I'm heading there, first," Skinner told Dana.

 

Scully grunted acceptance of his plan, sipped at her water and stared out the window at the cliff formation. "Why in God's name would anyone with half a brain put a school for the deaf on the edge of a cliff when there's hundreds of acres of perfectly flat land all around it?"

 

Skinner thought about that a moment. Kids will be kids, but if you couldn't yell at them to warm them away from a potentially fatal fall, you'd better have lots of staff , a good fence, or lots of insurance. He put the pedal to the metal. "Either they're optimists or idiots." No guess as to which option they both thought was the more likely scenario. 

 

#

 

John Doggett's helicopter landed in the parking lot of the Flemington School for the Deaf. A manila envelope had been slipped under his office door last night, just before he'd decided to wrap it up for the day and go home. The file contained Mulder's interest and past history with a student at the school, one Gibson Praise, by name. It also indicated that Mulder's next move would be to kidnap this boy, and it expressed a need for haste, and so, with only a casual pause to wonder who had slipped him the file or why, Doggett had filed a 302 with Kersh immediately. 

 

Doggett was surprised when Kersh not only suggested that, to save time and in the interests of efficiency, he take a tactical team with him instead of recruiting a 'posse' from the ranks of the local bureau office, but actually got on the phone to personally arranged a ride for the team on a military transport heading out to Luke Air Force Base, just outside Phoenix, as well as calling the base to reserve a helicopter to get them out to the school. 

 

Signed authorizations in hand, Doggett had gone back to his office to call the school's Principal and alert him to the possible kidnapping threat. He then told the man to isolate the kid and keep an eye on him and out for any strange men approaching the campus. He closed by telling the Principal to expect him the next day. After that, he assembled his tactical team. He gave them two hours to go home and grab a change of clothes and rendezvous back at the Hoover where a company van and driver were waiting to drive them to St. Andrews Air Force Base to connect with their courtesy flight to Arizona. 

 

After landing at Luke AFB, Doggett discovered that the reserved helicopter was only large enough to hold him and a pilot. Doggett encouraged his base liaison to try and secure a more suitable helicopter, but after the tactical team had been left to mill about aimlessly for a few hours, he changed tactics and requested suitable ground transportation instead. 

 

Doggett himself spent his down time on the phone to the local Field Office, arranging for possible traffic cordons and check-points to be put into place, if necessary, and faxing them a picture of Mulder for mass duplication and dissemination. 

 

Once Doggett's eleven man tactical team was packed into four black SUVs and underway, Doggett went back to the tarmac to board his helicopter. He'd arrive before his men, of course, but he had to trust that he could keep the situation in hand for the ten or so minutes he'd be on site without back-up. 

 

From the air, the school was just a collection of rectangles and squares amongst a herd of like rectangles and squares that made up the town of Flemington. But, on the ground, it looked like the last outpost of civilization, for the only structures in sight belonged to the school. 

 

He supposed the seeming aura of isolation of the school was enhanced by its being on the top of a sloping plateau, the empty bulk of which blocked the view of the populated portion of town. As far as the school was concerned, the 'real world' did not exist. 

 

Doggett hopped out of the helicopter, which took off at once to fly grid patterns over the designated suspect area. Doggett squinted against the swirling dust and headed straight for the administration building, which he identified by the hanging shingle that said: office. Inside, the Principal, having been drawn to the foyer by the helicopter's arrival, was pacing the floor, awaiting his entrance. Doggett flashed his badge. "Where's the boy?" 

 

"You're just going to have to slow down and explain a few things to us before we let you...," the Principal began. 

 

Doggett, in no mood to humor the man, headed down an open doorway. "Is he down there?" he asked. 

 

"He's in my office," the principal said, neither confirming nor denying Doggett's assumption. 

 

Doggett stomped down the hall, reading the identifying door plates along the way. 

 

Before the Principal could summon up enough gumption follow and confront Doggett, Scully and Skinner entered the building. 

 

"Hi. Um ... we're looking for a boy named Gibson Praise," Scully said by way of introduction. 

 

"Now, who are you?" The principal asked impatiently. 

 

Skinner and Scully pulled out and held up their badges. "F.B.I." they said.

 

At that moment, Doggett jogged back into the foyer. "Kid went out the window," he said before he noticed the other Fibbies. "What are *you* doing here?" 

 

"What are *you* doing here?" Scully challenged. 

 

"I'm trying to find Mulder," Doggett obligingly answered. 

 

Scully stiffened. "*We're* here to protect Gibson Praise."

 

"Oh, yeah? Under whose authority?"

 

"Under *my* authority," Skinner growled, feeling less than official in jeans and hiking boots. "I believe that, as a duly appointed Assistant Director, I not only have the power to make such decisions, I don't need *your* approval to enforce them, Special Agent."

 

Doggett's lips puckered up as if he'd just bitten into a sour melon. "Yes, sir!"

 

"Well, now that the pissing contest is over, would someone care to explain to me exactly what is going on?" the principal asked. He'd read Gibson Praise's file this morning, suspecting that the supposed kidnapper was a parent waging a custody battle over the boy, but there was no mention of parents in the file, which made him curious as to why Gibson would be a target.

 

Doggett sighed, but he turned to the principal. "We have it under good authority that a man named Fox Mulder may attempt to kidnap Gibson for reasons that are as yet undetermined. And, considering that the boy has already either booked on his own, or been snatched, I suggest we stop jawin' and start lookin' for him." 

 

"Yes, very well. Carry on," the principal said. "If you need me, I'll be in my office."

 

"Well, actually ," Skinner suggested, "if Gibson *did* sneak off by himself, it would be helpful if you'd make an announcement over the PA to your teaching staff that, if he is has gone into one of their classes, they should apprehend him, and give your office a call." 

 

"Yeah, and it would be helpful if you kept all the kids indoors until further notice," Doggett added. He gave Skinner a look, then, when Skinner nodded, headed out the door.

 

"Oh, very well," the principal acceded. "The PA is this way." The principal let Skinner and Scully behind the front counter, where the clerk staff worked. He made the public announcement himself, but none of the teachers called in to alert them that Gibson was in their class, even though they waited ten minutes.

 

"OK," Skinner said. "I think we've waited long enough. We know Gibson's tuition was been paid through graduation, and we know he boards here year round. So what we need from you is a copy of his class schedule, and a list of his teachers and friends. After that, you, or one of your 

staff, can take us to his dorm room. Maybe we'll find a clue to his whereabouts among his belongings."

 

#

 

Once outside, Doggett headed for the principal's office again. When he reached the window where Gibson had escaped, he looked down and, eyes glued to the ground as if in human imitation of the blood hound for which he was nicknamed, he searched for spoor. He found scuffs and the impressions of semi-crescents in the dirt, which he determined were toe and heel marks made by a small foot. He followed them for a few yards, until the sound of approaching cars caught his attention.

 

He looked for the source, and identified the sleek black SUVs that his tactical team had requisitioned for their trip to Flemington. Leaving the trail of footprints, he walked back to the front of the administration building and waited for his people to arrive. 

 

As the cars pulled into the courtyard his team of eleven agents decarred and assembled in front of their four vehicles. "Kid's on the move. Spread out!" Doggett shouted at them, when they were all present and accounted for.

 

Special Agent Gene Crane, Doggett's Assistant Special Agent In Charge, promptly turned to the other agents and shouted: "The kid's on the loose! You have the photo! Move!" as if they needed further motivation to act.

 

The other agents scattered in pairs, while Doggett and Crane took off in separate directions, solo. 

 

Doggett retraced his steps and picked up the trail. He followed the tracks around the corner of the building, where they hooked up with a much larger set of prints. Both prints were headed toward the head of the cliff. Doggett scanned the area and spotted the two figures who had made the tracks. They had a substantial lead on him. He jogged after them. 

 

As he closed the distance between the pair, he could see that the boy was struggling in the adult's grasp. The boy's protests: "Let me go! Let me go!" drifted back to Doggett, and he watched as Gibson made an abortive attempt to wrest his arm free of his abductor's steely grip. 

 

Doggett broke into a run, finally coming within firing range of his quarry. He pulled out his gun and took a shooter's stance. "Let the boy go! Let him go, Mulder!" 

 

The man who looked like Mulder stared at Doggett impassively, his face blank and expressionless.

 

"Let him go, or I will be compelled to use my weapon. Now, I don't want to do that, Agent Mulder. I don't want to shoot," Doggett confessed. 

 

'Mulder' let Gibson go. Gibson ran away from the cliff, but, also, quite deliberately, beyond Doggett's reach, not that Doggett cared. The whole of his attention was attuned to bagging 'Mulder.' Gibson Praise fell off his radar as soon as he left Doggett's peripheral vision. Before Doggett could congratulate himself on nailing his suspect, however, his quarry began to back towards the cliff. 

 

Doggett edged forward, as well, never letting his weapon drop from his target. "Now, are you armed? Come on, damn it. This is just stupid, Agent Mulder. Don't turn this into a movie. Just tell me if you've got a gun. It's too hot for this bull shit." When he got no reply, Doggett sighed. Mulder was backing himself into a corner, whether he realized it or not. It was only a matter of time till Mulder realized it, too, then there was no telling what he would do. 

 

Doggett wondered why Mulder had been dragging Gibson in this direction in the first place, when the easiest way off the plateau was by the road leading up to the school, which was in the opposite direction. The only answer he could think of: that Mulder had meant to throw the boy off the cliff, made him uneasy. "All right, then, lie down. Lie down on the ground. Keep your hands out. Lay down on your belly there." 

 

'Mulder,' rather than obey, backed away even faster, heading for the precipice. 

 

"For crying out loud, what are you doing? Agent Mulder, stay there!" Doggett's guts began to tell him that a bad end was looming. He put his gun down and ran pell mell towards the wayward agent, who, when he finally reached the very rim of the cliff, paused long enough to look Doggett in the eye, before, quite calmly, hopping back one last step, into open space.

 

Doggett roared and rushed forward, as if he still had a chance of saving the jumper. He dashed to the rim, trusting skill and luck to halt his momentum and keep the ground beneath his feet stable and firm. He not only stopped in time, he got to witness 'Mulder's' landing. The agent made an impressive supine 'thud,' bounced, twirled, and hit the ground again, his limbs splayed at odd angles. He didn't move. 

 

Shouting from behind him made the shocked Doggett look back the way he had come. His task force agents were running towards him. "He went over! Over the edge!" Doggett yelled. 

 

"Who?" Crane, the first one to reach him, asked. 

 

"Mulder," Doggett said. 

 

They both looked over the edge at the body. "Well, look's like you were right," Crane congratulated. "He did come for the kid. I guess we'll never know why, but at least you found him."

 

"Yeah. Somehow, though, I don't think Agent Scully is gonna put me on her Christmas card list for doing it." He stared at the broken body a few more seconds, then sighed. "Crazy bastard. Hope there's enough of that cracked brain to autopsy. I swear, the man stepped off the edge of that cliff as calmly as if he were stepping into an elevator. Man does something like that, he has to be insane."

 

As the agents retreated from the cliff edge, 'Mulder' opened his eyes, sat up, morphed into the standard bodily dimensions of an Alien Bounty Hunter, then stood up and trotted off towards the heart of the desert.

 

Minutes later, on the desert floor at the base of the cliff, Doggett and his agents arrived. Doggett paced to where Mulder's body should have been laying, and was unpleasantly surprised to find out it wasn't there. 

 

Thinking that he must have made a mistake, Doggett looked up the one hundred foot precipice, determined where Mulder had to have stepped off, and studied the ground more carefully. This time he could make out the shallow dish of compacted earth that proved Mulder had, indeed, landed in that spot. 

 

He called the other agents out to search for signs of the missing man, and they began to obediently comb the base of the cliff and spread outward from there. After five frustrating minutes, Special Agent DiMateo approached Doggett to confess their failure. As she made her report, Doggett spied Skinner and Scully's SUV over her shoulder. It pulled abreast of the posse of rentals already assembled at the crime scene and parked.

 

"Right. Let me talk to Scully. You guys head back to the school," Doggett told DiMateo. She nodded and headed back to her SUV, corralling her fellow agents with a swing of her arm. 

 

"Where is he? Where's Mulder?" Scully demanded as she hopped down from the parked SUV and stomped over to Doggett's side. 

 

"I don't know," Doggett admitted. 

 

"You don't know?" Scully exclaimed. "I heard one of your people say over the radio that you saw him. That he'd fallen off the cliff."

 

"Oh, yeah, I saw him. I saw him back right off that cliff there and I saw him fall right over here," Doggett said, pointing to the appropriate spots in turn. 

 

"Then where is he?" Skinner asked, as he, too, joined the party. 

 

"He's gone." 

 

"Come on," Skinner scoffed. "He can't be gone." 

 

"Yeah. He *can't* be, but he *is,*" Doggett insisted. 

 

Scully stepped over to the supposed impact site, looked up to the top of the cliff, then at the ground, which showed definite signs of impact compression. 

 

Skinner looked up at the huge cliff behind them, then back at Doggett. "That cliff there? He fell from there? And did what? Walked away when you weren't looking? He can't have walked away from a fall like that." 

 

"A cop sees things. A man drops five stories, dusts himself off, and goes back to work. An old lady gets shot point-blank in a Chinese restaurant, plucks the slug out of her egg foo yung. You got your point of impact there, where Agent Scully is standing... clear and identifiable. And a set of tracks here leading down to the wash. Look at these tracks. What do you see?" 

 

Skinner looked down at the tracks, but made no comment. 

 

"Mulder was running," Doggett explained. 

 

Scully strutted back to the two men. "It wasn't Mulder," she said confidently. 

 

Doggett shook his head. "That's the one thing I'm sure of."

 

Scully shook her head right back at him. "It may have looked like Mulder, but it wasn't Mulder." 

 

"I told you I knew Mulder," Doggett protested. "Okay, maybe I didn't know him that well. But I know who it was up there, and it was Fox Mulder." 

 

"I'm sure it *looked* like Mulder, and you had every reason to believe that it *was* Mulder...but, all the same, it was not Mulder," Scully replied smugly. "I told you that *I've* seen things...things that can't be explained by conventional science. Well, I have seen what looks like a man transform into another man." 

 

"What looks like a man but isn't a man?" Doggett challenged.

 

Scully sighed and looked at Skinner. "You don't want to know," they said in unison. Then, as if they'd rehearsed it, they started back to their SUV.

 

Doggett looked as if he was about to start foaming at the mouth. "If he's not a man, what the hell is he, then? Hey! Don't turn your back on me!" 

 

Scully obligingly stopped and looked Doggett in the eye expectantly. 

 

"I'm asking you a legitimate question," Doggett said.

 

"Fine: He was an alien. Happy now?" Scully asked sarcastically. 

 

Doggett looked at Skinner, as if to ascertain whether he was being played or not, but the Assistant Director was not smiling. In fact, he looked as grim as John Doggett had ever seen him. He looked back at Scully. "Alien? As in 'Little green men,' aliens?"

 

"--They're grey," Skinner corrected, then, at Scully and Doggett's mutual stares he puffed: "or so I've been told."

 

"According to Mulder, grey is their natural skin color," Scully explained. "All the ones I ever saw, though, looked like regular human beings. *Specific* human beings. They can do that because they're shape-shifters. It's actually not an unknown phenomenon, even among humans. Eddie Blundht is a prime example," Scully elucidated. "If that particular X-File hasn't been lost, misplaced, or destroyed in your task force's zeal to prove my partner is some rabid dog who ran off on a quest for the Holy Alien Grail, you can actually read all about it, visit him, and study the doctor's notes about his abilities. Eddie, that is," she clarified.

 

"OK, say I buy this 'alien' shape-shifting business: what would aliens want with a little boy like Gibson Praise?"

 

"Gibson is a... human anomaly," Scully said as she groped for an explanation. "He's a mind reader. His brain waves are similar to, if more...controlled, than Mulder's and the rest of the abductees' in Bellefleur, Oregon. It's their special brain wave patterns that have made all the current abductee's targets. We don't quite know why, yet. Nor how the aliens can detect them."

 

"Uh huh. So, this alien disguised himself as Mulder to come out here and grab the boy? Why Mulder?"

 

Scully sighed, avoiding eye contact with Doggett. "Actually, that's a good question. Mulder knew Gibson, of course, but anyone who knew Gibson would know that merely looking like someone wouldn't fool him. Not if his powers were working. They might have depended on the fact that they weren't, since he had had the same kind of brain operation that rendered Mulder, um, 'inert.' I have to assume it didn't matter to the aliens if Gibson's operation was a 'success' or not, since they have already abducted Mulder. In fact, we believe the ship that came for Gibson is the same one that took Mulder." 

 

Doggett looked at Skinner, again, to see if he minded being roped in with Scully's wild assumptions. "You know, Agent Scully... you're, uh, you're starting to remind me a lot of Agent Mulder yourself." He strode over to his own SUV, where one of the task force was patiently sitting behind the wheel, ready to chauffeur him to wherever he wanted to go. 

 

Scully put her arms akimbo. "Well then, you explain what just happened here," she dared him. 

 

Doggett gave her a withering glance, then climbed into the passenger seat without comment. The driver didn't even wait for instructions before he drove off, leaving Scully and Skinner alone in the desert.

 

Skinner, who had heard a run down of the 'alien variations' from Krycek, quickly reassessed their situation. "If the aliens *are* here, they could become anyone. You, me, any damn one of us. Our security isn't set up to handle that level of deception. And we can't go around making people bleed every time they've left our sight for half a second. We've basically got no defense against this kind of thing. If they are determined to get this kid, we have no way of stopping them." 

 

Scully's chin tipped skyward, as if the weight of the world had just settled onto her shoulders, then walked back to the SUV. "In that case, we'd better find Gibson and get the hell away from here."

 

They wasted no more time clambering back into their vehicle and driving back to the school. 

 

"I'd like to know how Doggett knew to come here," Scully fumed as Skinner negotiated the scrubby desert sands in search of the road back up to the school. "There's no way he could have gone through our files and come to the conclusion that Mulder wanted to kidnap Gibson. Do you think he's got us under surveillance?" Scully asked.

 

"No. It's pretty obvious Doggett didn't know we were going to be here," Skinner said. "Which means: somebody went to an awful lot of trouble to convince Doggett that Mulder *was* going to show up to grab Gibson, urgently enough to get Doggett out here ASAP with a D.C. tactical team. Somebody who also knows how to track these UFOs, and that Gibson was in the area and a prime candidate for abduction. And since *we* know Mulder isn't after Gibson, it stands to reason that whoever got Doggett out here was dangling Mulder as bait in order to save Gibson Praise.

 

"Whether that person is also responsible for Doggett actually seeing Mulder here, or whether Doggett just *thinks* he saw Mulder, well, that's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn't it? Because if Doggett really *did* see an alien who shape-shifted to look like Mulder, whether the alien did it in response to Doggett or Gibson, it implies an ability on the alien's part to pick our brains and show us exactly what we want to see," Skinner deducted.

 

"If Gibson really has lost his ability to read minds," Dana argued, "impersonating Mulder *would* be the perfect disguise, because Mulder was genuinely concerned with Gibson's safety, and Gibson knew that."

 

"Then why not just go to the Principal in Mulder's guise and take Gibson out of school legally? If there was some question of propriety, Gibson himself would vouch for Mulder's bona fides --but only if he can't read minds. So I have to wonder: can he or can't he still read minds-- and how would the aliens know one way or the other, unless *they* can read minds as well?" Skinner said.

 

"But if the aliens *can* read our minds, why can't they impersonate us more convincingly?" Dana asked. 

 

"I don't know. Maybe it's a matter of depth. Surface thoughts, rather than memories," Skinner suggested. "Things we're actively thinking, not things we aren't thinking consciously about. One thing's for sure: if Doggett is really supposed to be here to prevent Gibson Praise from being abducted, he's turning this place upside down looking for the wrong perpetrator."

 

"Skinner and Scully to the rescue?" Scully said lightly.

 

Skinner nodded. When he pulled into the school parking lot once again, they were surprised to see the entire school's population, some hundred odd faculty and students, milling about in the front quadrangle, a bare patch of earth hemmed in by school buildings on three sides, and the formidable line of black SUVs on the fourth side. 

 

Apparently, in Doggett's absence, one of the tactical team had decided that the best way to search the buildings was to evacuate the teachers and students, first. This meant that the students and faculty were being held outside, for an indefinite period of time, in the blazing desert sun, without shade, a place to sit, or, for all they knew, access to either the bathrooms or drinking fountains, for the only adornment in the quadrangle was a concrete circle holding a flag pole, from which flew the American flag, above the state flag of Arizona. 

 

Skinner parked his SUV behind the nearest 'official vehicle,' leaving plenty of room for the other car to back out, which put them near the class rooms on the right side of the quad. They exited, their auto, then hovered in the space between their vehicle and the one ahead of them, allowing Skinner to scan the crowd of students more carefully. "I don't see Gibson." 

 

"Well, he always was a slippery little devil," Scully recalled. "If he isn't here, he's long gone, and, no doubt, three steps ahead of us," she concluded. 

 

For some reason, none of the agents present seemed to be watching the 'evacuees,' for, while Skinner and Scully stood idly about deciding what to do, one of the students, a girl who looked to be about twelve years of age, sidled off towards the bike racks fronting the buildings to the left of

the administration building, liberated a bike, and took off for the open desert on the west side of the school and north of the last houses on Flemington's city limits.

 

The duo watched the girl escape with something approaching disbelief. She could have been exactly what she seemed, a little girl. She could also have been the alien, in disguise. Either way, she should not have been able to ride off without raising some sort of an alarm, unchallenged, unapprehended, and apparently unnoticed by any member of the tactical team.

 

"Shoddy," Skinner commented. "She seemed anxious to get away. Coincidence?"

 

"Not likely," Scully opined.

 

Skinner nodded. That was his opinion as well but, before he could comment, Agent Crane exited the school building on their right loudly enough to draw their attention. By some quirk of fate, he noticed the pair, as well, and, rather than continue his search of the buildings, he made a bee-line for them, as if he was convinced they held the answers to his prayers. 

 

"Don't look now, but we've got a pair of eyeballs on us. Go find our wayward bicyclist, I'll distract this one," Skinner instructed.

 

"Yes, sir." Scully immediately headed across the impromptu parking lot and the building behind the bike racks, and disappeared around the corner of the building. 

 

Agent Crane ran to catch up with her but Skinner side-stepped to intercept him. "May I have a word with you, Agent?" he said with a superior's polite non-request.

 

Agent Crane looked over Skinner's shoulder and watched Scully continue around the next corner and out of sight. He knew better than to ignore Skinner, though, so he sighed and focused his eyes back on the Assistant Director. "Sir?"

 

#

 

Scully tried to keep the bulk of the school building between her and any agents who might notice her departing the scene, then, when she decided that if she hadn't attracted a pursuer by now she never would, she struck off across the desert in search of the girl on the bicycle. 

 

Owing to the flatness of the terrain on this side of the cliff, Scully had no trouble spotting the girl, so she was able to see her stop, get off her bike, and pull up something on the ground which was large enough to hide her from Scully's prying eyes. Seconds later the 'something' came down

again, leaving behind only scrub brush and sand. The girl and her bike had disappeared. 

 

For a wild second, Scully was convinced she had found the location of the space ship. Then she figured out that the girl and her bike had just hidden in plain sight. She sighed. It was a long walk to the hiding place, a walk not made any easier by Scully's tight skirt or high heels. Scully wished she had thought to steal a bike, herself, but then, she decided, that would have been even more awkward, since the straight lines of her skirt were quite unforgiving. 

 

So she kept walking, cursing her choice of footwear with every step as her pump's heels either sank into the desert sand to the sole, or tipped crazily with potentially ankle-breaking swiftness on intractable rocks, or mired her down in broken through animal holes. 

 

Finally, after much sweat and perseverance, she reached the trap door, a square sheet of metal that looked as if it had once been part of a highway billboard. Someone had poked a rope through it, and knotted it in place. She grabbed the rope handle and tugged the trap door open, revealing a decent sized cave. The girl and Gibson were sitting facing the door, as if waiting for her.

 

"You shouldn't have come here," Gibson chastised. "You'll lead them to me." 

 

"I'm here to protect you, Gibson," Scully protested. "You know that's the truth."

 

"I know they took the man you work with, Mulder. And now, they've come to take me." 

 

"That's right. But they were looking for you long before we figured out why they came here, which means they found you all by themselves, which means they don't need me to lead them to you. And if they found you once, they can find you again, and that being the case, you ought to know that you can't get far enough away from them on a bicycle to save yourself. That's why you need me: to get away."

 

The girl signed as she spoke in the distorted monotone of the profoundly deaf. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that someone was following me." 

 

Gibson responded with a signed: 'It's OK.' "My friend, Thea, knows everything. She's the only one at school I've told. She's afraid for me." 

 

"She has a right to be afraid. We don't know who to trust now," Scully admitted. 

 

Gibson winced and looked down at his leg. Scully lifted the torn pant leg, uncovering a nasty looking wound. "I fell when I was running away," Gibson explained. 

 

"I think you might have broken it, Gibson."

 

"If they find me, they'll take me. I know it. I've always known it." 

 

"I'm going to make you a splint, Gibson, to immobilize your leg until the bones can be set, OK? I can splint your leg, but, uh... I'm going to need a car to get you out of here." Scully rose and broke off a couple of pieces of wood from an orange crate type box that the kids had drug into the hole to use as a table. "That means I'm going to have to go and get the car and then come back for you. I promise I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you." 

 

"You've said that to me before. Before *they* took me. Hurt me." 

 

Guilty, as charged, Scully averted her eyes, determinedly splinting his leg. "Sometimes grown-ups make promises they can't keep," she admitted, when she was done securing the splint to Gibson's leg.. "What I really mean, is that I promise to do my best. Sometimes my best isn't good enough. But I can't do more than my best. Can you?"

 

"...No," Gibson admitted.

 

"Alright, then. I have to go back to the school in order to get my car so we can transport you out of here. I intend to get it and I intend to come back, and I intend to keep them from abducting you."

 

Gibson nodded and looked at his friend with sad eyes. "I wish Thea could come with us."

 

"She can't. You know that, Gibson. Not only would you be putting her life in danger, but she has a family. She belongs here, with them."

 

"I know," Gibson said. "It was just a wish."

 

"Be careful what you wish for, Gibson; sometimes wishes come true --and not in a very nice way. Now, stay put. I don't know how long this is going to take. OK?"

 

Gibson shrugged. "It's not like I can run away."

 

"All the same," Scully said, "I want your word of honor."

 

"I promise," Gibson said readily. 

 

"Good enough. If you need it, maybe Thea can bring you food and water, hmm?"

 

Gibson nodded. "Only if I need it," he agreed.

 

"OK. I'll be as fast as I can," Scully promised, as she climbed out of the hole. She kicked dirt over the door to disguise it, then started the long trek back to the school. 

 

#

 

Skinner, in his quest to act as a diversion for Scully, expounded loudly and lengthily on the cruelty of leaving the children outside in the blazing sun. He insisted that Agent Crane amend the situation immediately, since, after all, Crane was Doggett's second-in-command. Of course, Skinner stayed to make sure Crane did exactly that, first determining that the dorm building was well and truly empty, then moving the students and faculty inside the dormitory building, and, finally, posting a pair of agents inside and outside the exits to insure the now confined civilians didn't wander off. 

 

Back outside, again, Skinner watched the remainder of the tactical team mill about, wander in and out of the school's other buildings seemingly at random, and pile into an SUV to head out to who knows where. The SUV returned in short order with a familiar looking ATV in tow. One of the agents had found it, apparently abandoned, in the desert. From the way they were patting themselves on the back, it was clear they thought they had discovered Mulder's means of transportation. 

 

Skinner had a feeling they had only found Alex's transportation. And if Alex wasn't around to claim it, that meant that he must have made contact with the aliens. Again. Skinner didn't know what he hoped for the most: that the aliens wouldn't abduct Alex again, that Alex could get Mulder free of the aliens, or that Alex successfully evaded his fellow F.B.I. agents once he left the ship, alone or with Mulder in hand. He did wonder how long it would take Alex to make it back to the filling station rendezvous on foot. Still, the day was relatively young, and it looked to get a lot older before he and Scully could even think about getting away from Doggett to pick Alex up.

 

A cell phone rang, jarring him out of his reverie, and everybody in earshot checked their units. 

 

Doggett answered his. "Yeah, this is John Doggett....Yes, sir....I'm afraid somebody jumped the gun on that. I saw him, sir, but I--...Well, we're 'round the clock here. I've got local SAR, a rolling ground cordon and an eye in the sky. We're on top of the situation....Yeah. I heard the question...." Doggett looked insulted, then clicked the phone off and shoved it back into his vest pocket.

 

Skinner, who had been standing close enough to over-hear Doggett's side of the conversation, smirked. 

 

Doggett drew his hand out of his coat and huffed. "This amuse you? *I* amuse you?" 

 

"Not you. Not exactly. I just put it together. Why you were chosen to head this investigation."

 

"And why might that be?" Doggett asked.

 

"Kersh didn't assign you to this case because he wanted you to find Mulder, he assigned you to this case to give him another excuse to shut the X-Files down. You're just a pawn in a rigged game," Skinner said.

 

Doggett's eyes narrowed, he looked over his available task force members, then took Skinner aside for a private talk. "All right, you've painted me the picture, now put it in a frame." 

 

Skinner nodded. "You've got a good rep, Agent Doggett. You don't compromise, you don't quit. You're a damned good FBI agent-- best of the best --for any assignment but this one. Word of advice: thinking inside the box isn't going to help you find Fox Mulder. There's no amount of search and rescue or rolling cordons or eyes in the sky that are going to turn up Mulder. It's the wrong approach." 

 

"It's the only approach I've got," Doggett said stiffly.

 

"Precisely my point. But say you actually *do* find him, even then you lose, because if you put anything about alien shape shifters or UFOs in your report, Kersh will ruin you because he isn't interested in the truth."

 

"But I *did* find Mulder!" Doggett protested.

 

"Did you?" Skinner asked. "Did you really see Mulder, or did you just imagine it? Tell me, Agent Doggett: is there any possible way you could have mis-identified the man with Gibson Praise?"

 

"No, sir. It was Mulder, all right," Doggett insisted.

 

"And he hopped off a hundred foot cliff and then ran away," Skinner pressed.

 

"*Yes,*" Doggett said, a bit testily.

 

"Fine. Remember you said that."

 

There was a long pause as Doggett stared at Skinner as if he'd just smelled a cow paddy and couldn't figure out how it had gotten on his shoes. Then he noticed something else. "Is Agent Scully here? Where's Agent Scully?" He stepped over to one of his team members and tapped his shoulder, then held out his hand expectantly.

 

Agent Mosley, who had been leaning against the hood of his SUV, snapped to attention, pulled out his walkie-talkie, and surrendered it to his boss. 

 

"I need someone who's with Agent Scully to put her on a radio," Doggett directed through the walkie-talkie.

 

Agent Landau looked around the dormitory building where he had been stationed. He watched as a man he took to be one of the teachers came out of the bathroom. He could hear Mosley's voice over the walkie-talkie, in a kind of stereo effect as he heard it from other Agents' units around the room. 

 

"Anyone got a twenty on Agent Scully? Is anyone out there with her?" 

 

Agent Landau's head swung across the room like a pendulum, back and forth, scanning the crowd. Where he would have expected to see the unknown male teacher, he saw Scully walking towards him, instead. He quickly thumbed his sender button. "I'm with Agent Scully." 

 

Agent Mosley, who had been scanning his own immediate vicinity for the female in question, knitted his brow. Unless he was very much mistaken, *that* was agent Scully just stepping into the quad area, like a marathoner making a final, determined sprint for the tape after a long, arduous race. "Then who's this?" he asked no one in particular, pointing to the likely suspect.

 

Skinner did not need to look in Mosley's direction to know that Landau's 'Scully' was bogus. He grabbed Doggett's arm and pointed at Scully, who was power walking the last yards that separated them. "I know for a fact that Agent Scully did *not* go into any of the school buildings. Whoever that is in there, it is not, I repeat *not* Agent Scully. Tell your men inside not to take their eyes off her, not even to blink! We've got to get in there, now!" 

 

Doggett heard Landau repeat: "I say again: Go for Agent Scully," over his walkie-talkie. 

 

Scully startled, as she over-heard the walkie-talkie report, as well. "What?" 

 

Doggett glared at her, as if it was her fault things had taken a turn for the out of the ordinary.

 

Doggett thumbed the talk button. "You're with Scully?" he asked, knowing that his entire tactical team was from the D.C. HQ and therefore stood a better than even chance of having actually seen Scully, rather than merely relying on a photo to establish her identity, as a local agent would have to have done.

 

"Right across the room from her," came the filtered reply.

 

"What room? Where are you?" Doggett asked. 

 

"Bunkhouse. We're in the dorm." 

 

The agents outside, including Scully, began to run for the dormitory building. 

 

"Hold Scully. We're coming to you," Doggett ordered. 

 

Agent Landau shipped his walkie-talkie and strode over to the woman who looked like Agent Scully. She took one look at him, and began to back away. He lunged for her. "Agent Scully-- "

 

'Scully' grabbed Landau by the neck with one hand and squeezed, crushing his windpipe like a sheet of paper. 

 

Doggett, his 'posse' right behind him, burst through the dormitory doors. 

 

'Scully' and Doggett exchanged stares, then 'she' dropped Landau, turned, and ran through the crowd.

 

"Hey!" Doggett yelled. They all took off in pursuit of the bogus Scully, including the real Scully.

 

Doggett chased the Scully look-a-like into the men's bathroom, only, when he got inside, there was no one in the room but Agent Crane, wiping his hands with a paper towel as if he'd just washed them. "Where did she go? Did you see her?" Doggett asked Crane. 

 

"See who?" Crane asked. 

 

Scully, on Doggett's heels, took a step to the left and leveled her gun at Crane. "She ran right back here. I saw her." She looked at Doggett. "*You* saw her." 

 

Doggett put his hand out as if to lower Scully weapon. "Yeah, well, she isn't here, now." 

 

Scully side-stepped him, and re-aimed her weapon. "Yeah? And who's to say *he* is? You saw 

*me* just a second ago. I told you these things are shape shifters."

 

Doggett looked irritated. "Put the gun down, Doctor Scully. Go help Agent Landau. I'm pretty sure he needs you more than I do."

 

Scully huffed, but did as she was told, not only because, if there was an injured person, she was the obvious choice to administer First Aid, but because if this alien *was* from the ship that had abducted Mulder, it wasn't a Colonist alien, but one of the Resistence, which made him an ally.

 

Scully didn't think the 'allies' would appreciate her killing one of their own out of hand. Although, injuring her fellow agent didn't seem to have bothered the Resistance alien, much. Of course, that was supposing it *was* a Resistance alien. //And by such thoughts are men made mad,// Scully decided. She put down her gun. "You don't know what you're dealing with, here," she told Doggett with a final 'look' at the man who might or might not have been the real Agent Crane, then she stomped out of the bathroom, located Landau with a sweep of her eyes, and went over to help the man.

 

The sight of Scully sent Landau, who had fallen to the floor and stayed there, bucking for air that had become harder and harder to coax into his lungs, into a veritable panic. He tried to worm away from her, even as his face turned purple from a combination of lack of oxygen and exertion. 

 

Skinner, who had hung back when the chase had centered on the men's bathroom, as it was clear to him that, either way, he would only be in the way in the tight quarters, followed Scully back to the injured man. In response to Landau's frightened panic at sighting his 'assailant,' Skinner immobilized the man by sitting on him, effectively pinning him to the floor so that Scully could get close enough to assess and treat his injury. 

 

Scully gave Landau a quick once over, then started searching her purse for a tampon and an atomizer of perfume. "Have you got a pen knife, sir?" She asked as she took out a pair of latex gloves from a cardboard dispenser in her purse, which she kept for handling evidence at a crime scene, along with a plastic evidence bag. 

 

Skinner rummaged in his pockets, and handed her his pocket knife. 

 

Scully opened one of the tampon packages, pulled the applicator apart, then pulled the actual tampon out of the applicator. She laid the various tampon parts on the plastic evidence bag, then gave the pocket knife a once over. She selected a blade and pulled it out of its housing, then put on the gloves, picked up the applicator, held it over Landau's throat, and doused it with the alcohol-based perfume. 

 

She repeated this procedure with the knife blade. The spill-off dribbled onto Landau's neck, and she stroked the fluid over his throat with the tampon cotton. She then pierced Landau's throat, below the crushed and swelling larynx which had cut off his air, with the tip of the knife. 

 

She twisted the blade sideways, to open up the resulting hole, and pushed the plastic tube into the gap, then pulled the knife blade out. The flexible windpipe tissue clamped down on the plastic applicator. Scully wiped up some of the blood with the tampon, then she took Landau's hand and placed it around the tube. "Keep that in place. You'll be all right."

 

Landau, who had turned a distressing shade of purple from lack of air, was immediately relieved as he drew a breath from the bloody opening, then through the improvised tracheotomy tube. 

 

"Someone call 911!" Scully ordered as she cleaned up her mess and stood up. Skinner stood up with her, following her to the nearest trash can where she disposed of the bloody tampon, gloves, and evidence bag. "He thinks it was me. He thinks that I did this to him," she said to Doggett, who had come over to observe. "How is that possible unless what I told you is true?"

 

Doggett knelt and looked Landau in the eye. "You swear it was Scully that attacked you?" Landau looked at Scully, then at Doggett and shrugged. 

 

"You said it was her," Doggett persisted.

 

"Go ahead and tell him, Agent," Skinner insisted. "It's important that he knows what you saw."

 

Landau nodded.

 

"So, that's an affirmative: it was Agent Scully who attacked you?" Skinner asked.

 

Landau nodded.

 

"Thank you, Agent." Skinner turned to Doggett. "You saw Mulder; he saw Scully. You know for a fact it wasn't Scully *he* saw, because she was standing right in front of you when Landau reported seeing her in this room. Are you prepared to listen to us, now?" Skinner asked Doggett.

 

"The alien is still here. It's someone in this room," Scully said, as she carefully looked at everyone in the room. She spotted 'Thea,' and, knowing that the girl was still with Gibson Praise, she pointed to her. "There it is!"

 

The supposedly deaf child, either reacting to the shout or the accusing pointing finger, grabbed a chair, hurled it through the window she'd been edging toward, then jumped through the resulting hole. They ran to the window, but, by the time they looked out of it, there was no one in sight. 

 

Doggett ordered his men to give chase, but he, himself, went around to the outside of the window and searched the ground for prints. He did not find any prints. The ground was no harder under this window than the one Gibson had jumped from, earlier, but there was no sign the girl had hit the ground. Doggett shook his head. He was pretty sure, if Mulder had been here, he would have written up a report stating that the subject had flown away. 

 

He recalled Skinner's words: 'Remember you said that'; 'You saw Mulder, he saw Scully'; 'Are 

you prepared to listen to us now?' He rubbed his forehead, feeling a migraine coming on. 

 

#


	12. Chapter 12

#

CHAPTER TWELVE

#

"What we must decide is perhaps how we are valuable, rather than how valuable we are." --Edgar Z. Friedenberg

#

Flemington School for the Deaf, Flemington, Arizona

Tuesday, June 12th, 2:30 p.m.

#

 

At Doggett's call to action, Scully and Skinner went outside with the other agents, but, instead of giving chase to the alien, they went to their SUV. 

 

"We've got to get Gibson, now," Scully told Skinner. 

 

Skinner nodded. He fired up the engine and they took off into the desert. It was no more than a fifteen minute drive back to the trapdoor. They loaded both children into the vehicle and headed away from the school, towards the heart of Flemington. They dropped Thea and her bicycle off at her home, then headed back down the highway towards Dewey, and the filling station where they were to rendezvous with Alex.

 

"If you sense an alien, you give a holler and point him out," Skinner told Gibson as he pulled the SUV between the pumps and the mini-mart/office. 

 

Gibson nodded. "I will."

 

Alex emerged from the store, a couple plastic bags of food in his prosthetic hand. He was sans ATV, and looked as dusty and dirt tired as Scully. He opened the back door and saw Gibson with his make-shift splint. "Hey, buddy. Remember me?" he said as he got into the back with Gibson.

 

Gibson nodded. "You went to see them," he said, matter- of-factly, as if 'they' hadn't spent most of the day trying to abduct or kill him.

 

"Yeah, I did," Alex admitted. "I went to ask them if they'd let Mulder go. Want a snowball?" He offered the twelve-year-old a package of pink marshmallow covered snack cakes.

 

"I don't think that's a good idea," Scully said. "He may need surgery. I think his leg is broken."

 

Alex looked apologetically at the boy. "Sorry," he said, opening the package anyway and stuffing half the mushy devil's food and creme-filled mound into his own mouth.

 

Gibson watched Alex chew the treat. He really would have liked to have had one. In the front seat, Scully radiated disappointment. She'd hoped Mulder would be waiting for them with Alex.

 

"Do you think we should let Agent Doggett know we have Gibson in custody?" Scully asked Skinner.

 

Skinner, who'd u-turned the SUV to the driveway at the far end of the station once Alex had gotten in, but who hadn't gotten back onto the main road, as yet, watched the distant lights of an ambulance as it wailed up the road and turned towards the school. "I don't think we'll have to. I don't feel like making the boy suffer unnecessarily, and that means getting him to the nearest hospital, where we'll no doubt cross paths with Agent Doggett, since that will be where the paramedics take Agent Landau," he said. "Do you know how to get to the nearest hospital, Gibson?"

 

"Turn left, till you get to Prescott. About two miles past the city limits sign there'll be road signs for the hospital. Just follow them."

 

"Good job, Gibson. Thanks. You hold on, now, we'll get you taken care of in no time," Skinner promised, as he pulled out. 

 

Gibson nodded, then looked at Scully. "Mulder's the reason they came after me. Because of what they read about me from Mulder's mind."

 

"But Mulder didn't know where you were," Scully said. "Mulder only knew where you disappeared. You could have gone anywhere in the world since we last saw you." 

 

"So how did they find me? It's like, they just looked, and there I was."

 

"They do have ways of detecting us," Scully said. 

 

"But I know I don't have an implant," Gibson said, reading her thoughts, "so it's not that way, it's some other way. 

 

"When the collaborators had me, I found out that the Colonist aliens wanted to kill me so our scientists couldn't figure out how to make regular people like you able to detect them. But I don't think the Resistence aliens have made up their minds about what they want to do with me, yet. I kind of get the impression that some of them wouldn't mind if I were dead, or being experimented on in one of their laboratories, or even just locked away where I wouldn't pose a threat to them.

 

"That's why they came after me. Because they're scared we'll find a way to detect them. They're pretty sure that if we knew how to pick them out from normal people, we'd eradicate them, like we're planning to destroy the oiliens," Gibson said. 

 

"That explains why they want you, but why would they want Mulder?" Scully asked.

 

"They're trying to fix him," Gibson said. "Only, it's not going so well. It's just going well enough that they are determined to succeed." 

 

"Fix him?" Scully echoed, suddenly worried. "What's broken?"

 

"His head."

 

"His head?" Scully repeated. "What's wrong with his head? Did he get injured when they abducted him?" Her emotions keened at the boy and he shrank back in his seat. 

 

"Hey, leave the kid alone, will ya?" Alex said, throwing his arm across Gibson's chest, as if to shield him from Scully's questions. "Finding out all that stuff was my job, right? So let me give my sit-rep before you get your panties in a bunch, OK?" Alex dug a bottle of water out of his bag to wash down his snowball, noticing Gibson's look of yearning. "Can I at least give the kid some water?" he asked.

 

Scully pursed her lips. The kid had spent the better part of the day huddled in a ditch covered by a hot metal roof. If he wasn't actually feverish, he was sure to be over-heated and dehydrated. She nodded. "I could use some water, myself," she said, considering her own trek through the hot desert.

 

"Right." Alex gave the first bottled water to Gibson, then got out another two. He handed one to Scully, then opened and took a slug of his own before launching into his report. "Well, what Gibson said is true, at least by the aliens' standards, they are trying to 'fix' Mulder. They've come up with a way to turn sensitive humans into oilien detectors. If they are within a certain range of an infected person--no word yet on how far that range extends, although it probably depends on the individual-- these sensitives can point out oilien possessed life forms. They aren't sensitive to shape-shifters, hybrids, or clones, though.

 

"The area of the brain that is vital to the function of this ability is the God Module. They wanted to see if they could restore Mulder's module and make a detector out of him. I guess it's kind of a rare talent, or they wouldn't bother. Needless to say, until they've done messing with Mulder, he isn't going anywhere, so, I left. Only to discover that someone had stolen my wheels in the meantime. I spent the last four hours walking back to the gas station, then buying all this food so I wouldn't look suspicious loitering around waiting for you to come get me."

 

"Hmm. That could mean that they wanted Gibson in order to restore his God Module, as well," Scully deduced. 

 

"Well, actually, when I asked, they said they wanted Gibson in order to train him how to control and expand his mental abilities, the bastards," Alex said.

 

"And you believed them?" Scully asked.

 

Alex shrugged. "It sounded reasonable to me at the time. I told them that I'd tell Gibson that that's what they wanted, but I made sure they understood that I would leave the decision up to Gibson, that no way was I going to force him to go with them, and I meant it, so don't sweat it, OK?" Alex added as he turned to look at Gibson.

 

Gibson nodded. He looked from Alex to Scully. "The aliens are trying to fix Mulder's God Module, but mine healed by itself. And I *can* detect shape-shifters," Gibson confessed. "I don't know about hybrids or clones, though, 'cause I don't think I've seen any."

 

Alex's eyes went wide. Then he looked over at Gibson, guiltily, and mentally sent a warning to the boy to keep silent about what he might have just learned from Alex's mind. 

 

Gibson looked at him, then Scully, then back at Alex, and gave an 'OK' sign with his hand, but shook his head. Fortunately, Scully's cell phone started to ring, just then, so she was too busy answering it to notice their silent exchange.

 

"Scully here.... Really?...OK. Thanks....Will do. Bye.

 

"That was Byers. Another alien ship has come into the area. I think we can pretty much assume that they aren't Resistance aliens," she reported to Skinner, then she looked back at Gibson. "Can you tell Colonist aliens from Resistance aliens, Gibson?' Scully asked.

 

"No," Gibson confessed. "They're all alike to me: all staticky. I guess it's because they're not from here --Earth, I mean. Like, I can't really read animals, but I can sense what they're feeling if I concentrate, and if there are a whole bunch of them, like a swarm of ants, or a herd of cows...it's like...splashes of color, only in moods. And they're really clear colors. 

 

"With humans, if there are a lot of them, it's like listening to that many radios, each tuned to a different station, all at the same time. The more people there are, the harder it is for me to focus on any one person's thoughts. But with the aliens, it's like listening to one radio that's so staticky I can't always tell what I'm hearing. Sometimes it's feelings, sometimes thoughts, sometimes pictures, sometimes sensations. 

 

"When I'm with people, what I pick up depends on the person and what mood they're in when I read them. I always assumed that the amount of static I got off the aliens was like that: individual to the alien and his mood. But it could be that it has to do with what *kind* of alien they are, that is, hybrid, clone, or shape shifter, or oilien, and I just haven't met enough of them to be able to tell one from the other. But I *do* always know that *some* kind of alien is near-by, because the static gives them away," Gibson explained confidently. 

 

"That's the main reason I don't want to go with them, that and the fact that I'm afraid of what they'd do to me. Even as far away as I was from the alien's ship at the school, I could hear this...wall of noise. When I was in a stadium full of people, there were so many thoughts coming at me, it kind of blended together, like running water, you know?" He laughed and looked at Alex. "Yeah! a real live babbling brook! Ha-ha-ha! But listening to a bunch of aliens is like being on the landing deck of a busy aircraft carrier without ear protectors. It's so loud it hurts." 

 

"Do the aliens know you can detect them?" Scully asked.

 

"I guess. They read minds, too, you know. I think they know that detecting their minds bugs me. And I can tell that they're afraid of you, Alex. They're not usually afraid of humans unless they have detection abilities like mine. But you make them nervous. Because you're unpredictable. They don't understand you at all, and you're harder for them to read than most humans. But they need you, your resources, and your contacts. That's the only reason you're still alive, 'cause they really hate humans who have been possessed by oiliens.... I guess it bugs them like it bugs me, in some way."

 

"Yeah. I'd kinda figured that out," Alex admitted, regarding his status with the Resistence aliens. "But thanks for confirming it for me, all the same."

 

"That's OK. I owed you one," Gibson smiled.

 

"You owed Alex one for what?" Scully asked.

 

"Saving my life. Sort of. Before those scientists operated on me, Alex told me that if I wasn't smart enough to figure out what I needed to do --and not do-- in order to stay alive, well, I was just too stupid to live, and he wouldn't feel sorry for me. That's when I wised up. When they took out my God Module, I really did lose the ability to read minds, you know. They tested me to make sure. But they all think that you can't heal brain cells, so they were convinced I was permanently disabled. 

 

"They were wrong, of course. In a few days, it was like I'd never had the operation, but, thanks to Alex, I never told anyone. I pretended I was still crippled, because I knew the Elders would kill me if they knew I could expose them and their secrets. The thing is, I was able to read that they'd kill me if I was useless to them, too. Luckily for me, they were chasing an escaped alien juvenile, which gave me the idea to tell them that I could tell them where it was. I had to fake my way through another bunch of tests to prove I still couldn't read the Elders' minds but, once I passed, they took me to the power plant to flush out the alien. My handlers were careless, though. They didn't think I'd run away from them. Well, we *both* ran away from them. *It* got away, too, but it's not dangerous to humans, any more, so it's OK that they couldn't find it. The Elders didn't like that I escaped, though, so they sent Alex to catch me. I let him, 'cause I knew he'd never hurt me." He smiled at Alex. "Alex has a soft spot for kids." 

 

"Do not," Alex automatically denied. 

 

Skinner smiled at that, and Gibson, even though he couldn't see the smile, smiled at Skinner, in turn. "Alex convinced the Elders that it would be smarter for them to put me in the deaf school and have me watched, in case I developed any other new abilities, or got back my old ones, than it would be to just kill me, because who knows when they might need to detect aliens in human disguise again? They didn't realize it was way easier for me to pretend I don't know things I shouldn't know at the Deaf School.... I'll really miss it," he said wistfully.

 

Alex nodded. He knew exactly what the kid meant. He'd spent entirely too much of his life on the run, too. "We need to get Gibson fixed up, and disappeared, fast," Alex said. "And I know just the person to take care of him. He can go on the lam with the kid, make sure he stays off the alien's radar, and out of contact with me, because I still need to deal with the aliens, and I don't want them reading Gibson's location out of my mind."

 

"I don't know that just moving him constantly will do the trick," Scully said, not voicing her opinion that she wouldn't trust Alex to pick a suitable guardian for a goldfish, let alone a child as special as Gibson. "If the aliens were able to track Gibson down in the first place, they'd be able to find him no matter where he goes. And we really do need to figure out how Gibson can detect the aliens and if we can duplicate it; there's enough paranoia running rampant in this affair, and it would sure beat making people bleed every time they needed to prove they were human." 

 

Alex hissed at her. "The very fact that you'd be willing to subject a child to that kind of Hell --I swear! I can't believe you, sometimes, Scully."

 

"The fate of the *world* is at stake, here, Krycek!" Scully retorted, just as heatedly. "And it's not like we have a whole lot of options on how to save ourselves."

 

"Yeah, I know! *I've* known it a lot longer than you, *and* I've been doing more about it than you have, so don't even think about giving me the 'I'm more dedicated to saving the human race than thou' speech, OK?"

 

"Hey, hey! that's enough of that," Skinner interjected before Scully could escalate the argument. He didn't think they'd shoot each other if things got out of hand --but you never knew. "Let's worry about what to do with Gibson *after* he's gotten a clean bill of health, shall we?" Skinner interrupted. "Gibson, I know you're still a child, but you're old enough to understand what's at stake here. I want you to think about what you can do to help, and what kind of living arrangements would make you happiest, and then, after we leave the hospital, we'll figure out if we can make it happen, OK?"

 

"OK," Gibson nodded.

 

#

 

An hour later, they pulled into the emergency bay of the MacLaren Regional Medical Center. Skinner put on the emergency brake, got out of the driver's seat, circled the SUV to open the passenger side rear door, and hoisted Gibson Praise into his arms. Then Scully preceded the pair into the Emergency Room, while Alex took the driver's seat and moved the SUV into the nearest --blessedly tree shaded-- parking spot, rolled down the windows and opened the sun roof, so he wouldn't roast in his own juices while he waited for the others to make a reappearance. 

 

"I've got a boy here who needs emergency medical attention!" Skinner bellowed when he got inside. Scully made doctor noises designed to elicit obedience from any near-by nurse, and soon a Gurney made an appearance. Skinner set Gibson onto the contraption, then he and Scully audaciously wheeled Gibson into the Emergency room, flashing their badges at anyone who came near them.

 

"Walter Skinner, F.B.I. We have a priority situation here. I need this boy treated and released, ASAP, this is a matter of National Security." Skinner blustered, as he rolled the Gurney into a treatment bay. 

 

"Now, see here," one of the ER doctors protested. "We have a thing called 'triage.' We take the most severe cases first-- "

 

" --And this case supercedes anything you've got, so step on over here and get to work!" Skinner insisted. 

 

"I'm Doctor Scully, I think the boy has a broken leg," she added.

 

The doctor sniffed. "*This* patient's bleeding!" he said, indicating the person he was working on.

 

"Then I suggest you hang some blood, or get another doctor down here to take that case or this one," Skinner said firmly, "because I need to get this kid out of here and into protective custody NOW. Unless, of course, you'd prefer that the psycho killer on his heels figures out he needs medical attention, follows us here, and turns your Emergency Room into a free fire zone?"

 

The doctor considered the ramifications of Skinner's scenario, and quickly wrote out some orders which he handed off to the nearest orderly. The orderly read the orders, and immediately took charge of Gibson's Gurney. He rolled it out of the Emergency Room, with Skinner and Scully holding onto the rails like pilot fish, hoping that they were actually making progress and not being sloughed off to some new waiting room Hell. 

 

Luckily for all concerned, the orderly took them up to the X-ray department. Skinner put on a lead vest so he could remain in the room with Gibson while Scully went into the tech's station to observe the filming process. Afterwards, Skinner stayed with Gibson, while Scully consulted with a summoned orthopedic doctor about Gibson's diagnosis and treatment options. They decided that the break could be handled in the ER, and they paraded back down to the ER so the orthopedic doctor could set Gibson's leg and put it in a cast.

 

Skinner flashed his badge at the nurses who tried to shoo him out of the treatment bay and into the waiting room. He informed them that he was not a hysterical parent, but a bodyguard who was not about to let the boy of his sight, and that he was there for their protection as well. 

 

Scully, who took up a position outside the bay, assured them that neither she nor Skinner would interfere with the procedure, so the nurses relented. 

 

The doctor had just given Gibson a shot and was waiting for it to numb Gibson's leg before he manipulated it back into place, when Landau arrived with a full complement of EMTs. and was, coincidently, put in the bay across the aisle from theirs, allowing Doggett, who had entered the ER in the EMTs' wake, to catch sight of Scully. He immediately called a couple of his men to join him, and they strode over to confront her. 

 

Skinner looked over at Gibson and caught his eye. Gibson gave him an 'OK' sign, and he loosened his grip on his still holstered weapon. "Everybody's legit, Agent Scully," he informed her, in case her uncertainty got the better of her professionalism. 

 

Scully folded her arms and looked down her nose at the interloper who stationed his two men on either side of their bay like sentinels --or prison guards. "For someone who claims he's not following me, you sure have a knack of showing up where you're not wanted," Scully said frostily, by way of greeting. 

 

"Hey, you're where the action is," Doggett said sarcastically. "Although, I gotta tell ya: sneaking off with my bait i'n't exactly my idea of interoffice cooperation," Doggett said. 

 

"I told you at the school I was here to protect Gibson. That's what I'm doing," Scully told him primly.

 

"And here I thought your first priority would be to get your partner back," Doggett said dryly. "Or maybe you're just trying to protect him by making sure he can't get his mitts on the kid?" he speculated.

 

Scully shook her head. "Mulder isn't the one who's after Gibson." 

 

"Huh! Yeah, little green men who *look* like Mulder are. Listen, I haven't been on this case long, but if there's one thing I've figured out, it's that Mulder is after this boy."

 

"If that's *all* you know about this case, Agent Doggett, you don't know Jack," Scully retorted. "I know you've been out of Quantico a few years, but I think you need to refresh your memory on what constitutes a crime, ie, Motive, Means, and Opportunity. Just what, exactly, is Mulder's motive supposed to be?" 

 

"Aw, well, Mulder's motives beat the hell out of me, too. But I know what I saw. Mulder *is* after this kid, and, when he shows up, my men are going to be waiting for him."

 

Scully shook her head. "What's after Gibson isn't even human. You saw *that* with your own eyes, too. You're just too stubborn, or too afraid to admit it." 

 

"I'm not afraid of anything. Except that maybe Mulder's got even you believing his crap, now." 

 

"You've seen 'his crap' for yourself, Agent Doggett. How else do you explain what took place today?" 

 

"Let me ask you something hypothetically," Doggett said, digressing. "If *you* had found Mulder out there in the desert with Gibson, what would you have done?"

 

"First off, I'd have made sure it *was* Mulder," Scully said.

 

"How?" Doggett asked. "How would you make sure it was really Mulder?"

 

"I'd have asked Mulder to cut himself so I could see his blood."

 

"And he'd have done it, just like that, in the middle of a kidnapping?" Doggett snorted.

 

Scully nodded "He would have done it just like that, *if* he were the real Mulder. We've had too much experience with shape-shifters to do otherwise."

 

"So, when you had Agent Crane at gun-point in the bathroom, you'd have asked him to cut himself to see his blood?"

 

"No! Alien blood is toxic to humans!" Scully explained. "If he *had* been an alien, exposing us to his blood in the confines of the bathroom would have incapacitated *us.* Likewise, cutting him inside the dorm would have exposed the children to the toxin, so we would have been forced to take him outside and cut him there."

 

"Uh huh. Then what? We take him into custody?" 

 

"...I really don't know," Scully confessed. "In the first place, they are exceedingly strong, practically immune to injury, and --well, they can shape-shift, so holding onto them is problematic. 

 

"Secondly, there's more than one faction of aliens out there. The one's who took Mulder are supposedly rebelling against their alien masters, and are actually helping us find ways to defeat the ones who are trying to take over the Earth, which means that that particular alien should have been an ally, so killing him would have been my option of last resort. 

 

"Trouble is, neither the rebels nor the loyalists have the slightest disinclination to harm humans in return, and, when you expose them for what they are, they tend to kill or injure anyone who hampers their attempts to escape. If he had behaved civilly, I'd have tried to convince him to let Mulder go. If I thought I was dealing with one of the Colonist aliens, on the other hand, I'd have tried to kill it by shooting it in the Axis of the skull --that's where the skull meets the spine, AKA the C-1 joint; it's the only place you can hit them that will kill them. If you can get behind them and pierce the C-1 with a gimlet --Mulder calls them 'plams,'-- that will kill them, as well, but you have to hit them, then run like Hell in any direction but downwind in order to escape the toxic fumes. Now, are you any closer to believing me than you were a minute ago?"

 

Doggett shook his head. "Not so's you'd notice, no. OK, let's get down to it: we're both F.B.I. Agents. We're on the same side, and we supposedly want the same thing: to find Mulder, yet you've taken every opportunity you've had to lie to me, and flout orders every step of the way. I don't appreciate it, I don't understand it, and I don't see how you can stand there harping about my attitude and my behavior when you knew where the kid was and you wouldn't tell me-- why are you being such a bitch --if you'll pardon my French?"

 

"Well, that's where we differ, Agent Doggett. You seem to think we're on the same side of this situation, when I know for a fact we're not. The only thing on Kersh's agenda is to cover-up what really happened to Agent Mulder, and, ideally, to scapegoat him so the Bureau can wash their hands of him and his work. You were lured out here with the enticement that you could prove my partner has gone rogue, while *I* came here to try and save him --and this little boy --and the Human Race! And until you believe that, we aren't even reading the same book, let alone the same page."

 

"Fine. Luckily for me, I'm still in charge of this operation, and, as such, I will make it my business to see that you and the boy stay here, where my men can contain the situation. Nobody is coming in or out of this hospital without I know about it." 

 

Skinner snorted. "Yeah, that tactic worked so well at the smaller, more isolated school venue. I can't wait to see how it's going to play out in a crowded regional hospital." 

 

Doggett flushed. "We're more prepared, this time around. Mulder won't give us the slip, again."

 

"If the only 'enemy' you and your men are looking for is Mulder, you are going to get this boy --and possibly dozens of other innocent by-standers-- killed or injured. You don't even know if your men are really your men!" Scully said.

 

Doggett snorted. "Spare me the 'not men who change into particular men' mumbo jumbo, OK?"

 

Scully bristled. "Yeah, go ahead and bluster, Mr. Hot-Shot Investigator. Too bad your team conducts their forensics work as well as their search and contain procedures. Otherwise I'd have hard evidence that what I'm saying is true."

 

Doggett looked as if Scully had slapped him. "OK. What did I miss?" 

 

"Do you happen to know Mulder's shoe size?" Scully asked. 

 

"Thirteen," Doggett answered without hesitation.

 

"Did you happen to notice that the shoe prints leading away from the impact site were a size sixteen?" Scully asked sweetly.

 

Doggett's eyes narrowed. He hadn't, in fact. But, now that she brought it up.... //Shit!// "...One of my team must have contaminated the scene," he said lamely, knowing, either way, it made him look bad.

 

Scully pointedly checked out the --markedly smaller than size sixteen-- feet of the team members present. "Riiight," she drawled. "That seems the likeliest explanation, all right," she smirked. 

 

Doggett glowered. 

 

Skinner shook his head, trying to contain his glee. He had been on the wrong side of Dana Scully's ire in the past --it was a *lot* more fun viewing it as an innocent bystander. Still, it wouldn't do to have the Bureau's agents incite a brawl in an Emergency Room in front of civilians. He decided to distract them, and waved his hand over Gibson, who was in the middle of having his leg set. "In any event, we aren't going anywhere, Agent Doggett," he said, putting the conversation back on a safer track.

 

"Yeah. See that it stays that way, huh?" Doggett stomped over to the other bay to check on Landau and regroup, leaving the other agents in place like silent sentinels.

 

Gibson looked at Skinner. "I think the drugs I was given are affecting my ability to detect the aliens," he said. "They might have to be a lot closer than usual before I can sense them."

 

"How much closer?" Skinner asked.

 

"Well, I can tell that the people in here are human, but I can't get any readings from the waiting room, any more."

 

"So, we're back to close range detection," Skinner assessed. "And less sure about who we're dealing with than we were before." He leaned close to Scully so he could whisper to her without the other agents over-hearing. "Unless Doggett calls Kersh and I receive orders to the contrary, I still out-rank him. If Doggett thinks we're cooperating with him, he'll neglect to make that call until we're bugging out. So, if he comes back, play nicely with him, will you, Agent Scully?"

 

Scully snorted, but conceded his point. "Yes, sir."

 

Happily for Scully, Doggett did no more than come by to instruct the doctor to admit Gibson as a patient. If the hospital assigned him a private room it would allow Doggett to put his security measures in place. The doctor complied, but, when Gibson's cast had hardened enough to allow him to be removed from the Emergency Room bay, Skinner palmed the doctor a credit card and whispered that the boy's discharge papers and all prescriptions and equipment needed for his removal from the hospital were to be readied, and his bill settled, on the sly. He then phoned Alex, alerted him to their situation, and instructed him to bring the SUV to an entrance en route to Gibson's new room. 

 

The doctor left the bay to attend to other patients but, eventually, an orderly with a wheelchair and crutches showed up. He handed Skinner a clipboard full of papers, and Skinner began signing them as directed. He found his credit card under the last sheet, and slipped it into his pocket, along with his copies of the paperwork. Then he and the orderly loaded Gibson into the wheelchair, and handed him his new crutches. With Scully on point and Skinner bringing up the rear, they pretended to head for Gibson's room, Doggett's two Tactical team agents on their tail. 

 

When they reached the side door, Skinner yelled: "Go!" and shoved the orderly away from the wheelchair and into one of their F.B.I. shadows. Gripping the wheelchair's handles, he made a mad dash towards the waiting SUV, visible through the glass doors, Scully sprinting ahead of them as fast as her short legs could churn. 

 

Scully hit the door and held it open so Skinner could steer the wheelchair through it on the run. Once they were safely outside, she let go of the door and stepped into the middle of the walk-way to run interference for them, drawing her weapon, even as she backed to the waiting vehicle.

 

The two agents 'escorting' them ordered them to halt, this while the one was untangling himself from the orderly. Blocked between the wall and the orderly, he shouted for his partner to give chase, and whipped his walkie-talkie up to sound a general alarm. 

 

His partner drew his own weapon and bolted out the door, only to come face to face with an armed and dangerous Scully. He yelled at her to put down her weapon and surrender, but she kept on edging backwards, gun at the ready. A few seconds later, the second agent joined the Mexican stand-off. 

 

At that moment, Skinner reminded the agents exactly who out-ranked whom in the chain of command, and ordered *them* to put their weapons away. The agents, who were familiar with Skinner, as well as the chain of command, paused to process his countermanding orders. They glanced at each other quickly, reached a consensus, and lowered their weapons, giving Skinner time to load Gibson and his new pair of crutches into the back seat. 

 

Once Gibson and his crutches were in, Skinner clambered into the back seat with Gibson and slammed and locked the back door. 

 

Scully sheathed her gun in order to --literally-- climb up into the high chassised SUV. Before she could settle herself in her seat, another agent came running up the road towards them, gun drawn.

. 

 

Gibson pointed at this new agent and yelled: "Alien!" 

 

The alien, knowing he'd been made, took a stance and fired off a shot, which glanced off the SUV's windshield.

 

Alex, who'd laid his Glock onto the seat beside him the minute he'd gotten Skinner's call, grabbed the automatic, popped up through the sun roof, and fired off a shot. The fake agent dropped like a rock. Alex let gravity pull him back into his seat, and, before the curbside agents could do more than bellow in out-rage and belatedly bring their weapons to bear, he stomped on the gas and peeled out for the exit.

 

Skinner threw himself over Gibson, to keep him below the window's line of sight and any possible return fire, while Scully scrambled to shut her door and fasten her seat belt before Alex's one --fake-- handed driving could throw her out of the vehicle, up through the sun-roof, or into his lap. 

 

Behind them, one of the agents, deciding that stopping the fleeing suspects was less important than administering first aid to a bleeding fellow agent, shipped his weapon and ran over to attend to his fallen companion. He took the opportunity to report the shooting on his walkie-talkie as he approached, then stumbled back in horror as the downed man began to dissolve into a puddle of green goo before his very eyes. His screams turned to coughs, diverting his companion's attention away from the fleeing vehicle to this new, more immediate, calamity, allowing the SUV to make a clean get-away without the inconvenience of dodging any more slugs.

 

Doggett popped out the hospital's side door just as the SUV peeled out of the parking lot and onto the street. Doggett ran after it, as if he could catch them and bodily haul the fugitives back into his custody. His men's cries shifted his attention to their fallen 'agent,' in time for him to witness its final dissolve. Doggett's jaw dropped in stunned disbelief, but he was nothing if not a quick study. He took out his cell phone and called the hospital's haz-mat team to come clean up and take samples of the goo that had been one of his agents minutes before, even as his men continued to back away from the steaming puddle to escape the noxious fumes.

 

Doggett ushered his dumb-founded agents back to the shelter of the hospital's interior and proceeded to commandeer one of the doctor's offices so he could hold a briefing with the remainder of his men. It was only when the two agents in the parking lot related their dilemma about Skinner's, Doggett's, and their own relative ranks as regards the chain of command, and their conflicting orders, that Doggett thought to make the call to Kersh that would give him authority over Skinner for the duration of the case. 

 

In the meantime, the haz-mat team, making a standard sweep of the premises for additional hazardous spills and possible sources of origin, discovered the heretofore supposedly dissolved agent in one of the hospital's hazardous waste bins. He was unconscious, but alive, his mouth and eyes were rimmed red and chapped from exposure to what they supposed was the same chemical irritant they had found in the parking lot, the nature of which the haz-mat team had yet to identify. 

 

They treated the agent accordingly, isolating him in a completely contained, emergency quarantine tent with an independent air supply, so he could contaminate neither the other patients nor any unprotected hospital personnel. The doctor in charge took especial pains to preserve and protect as much of the stricken agent's lung functions as he could, and, just to be safe, gave the agent who had breathed the fumes in the parking lot a perfunctory examination in another hastily erected containment chamber.

 

Doggett, upon hearing the news of the discovery of a man two agents swore they had watched approach, fire on the SUV, take a direct hit to the head, and dissolve into green toxic goo, chewed his lower lip and wondered what the Hell he had gotten himself into. It was then he decided to give Monica Reyes, a fellow F.B.I. agent currently assigned to the Bureau's New Orleans Field Office, a call. 

 

Eight years ago, Monica had been the lead agent investigating Doggett's eight-year-old son, Luke's, kidnapping and subsequent murder. Doggett had been NYPD, back then, but there was still no one in the Bureau he trusted more than Monica --even if she was almost as 'spooky' as ol' 'Spooky Mulder,' himself. 

 

Doggett figured that was on account of her growing up with the Santeria and Bruja culture in Mexico, but he didn't hold it against her. In fact, it was as much for her vast knowledge in cult and ritual practices, as for her common sense and ability to make sense of the incomprehensible that he was seeking her out. 

 

//And *boy* do I need a fresh pair of eyes on this one,// Doggett thought wearily.

 

#

 

Back in the SUV, Scully looked back to see Doggett and his men escape the dissolving alien by retreating inside. "We're clear. What are we going to do about Doggett, sir?" Scully asked.

 

Skinner straightened, made sure Gibson was all right, then growled. "Whichever way Doggett jumps in the long run, for the short run we have to avoid him --and any other enforcement agents-- until we've gotten Gibson out of harm's way, because they'll be taking their orders from Kersh, and even if we don't know for certain Kersh is dirty, we *do* know his ultimate aim is to close the X-Files. That means we have to turn our cell phones off for the duration, so we can't get orders from Kersh to turn ourselves in. Orders never received are orders that never existed," Skinner concluded, as he reached for his phone to turn it off. "As of right now, we are officially fugitives of the F.B.I."

 

"We'll have to ditch these wheels, too," Alex said. "Doggett's sure to put an APB out on it, which means every minute we spend in it gives every law enforcement agent in Arizona one more chance to nab us. Fortunately, " Alex grinned, "it's coming on dusk and I have a bolt hole near-by. Between the gloom of night, a little dirt, and my contacts we ought to be able to get out of state before we're nabbed." He pulled the SUV to the shoulder of the road, put it in park, grabbed a water bottle, and hopped out to 'dress' their license plates with mud. That done, he got back behind the wheel and drove just a tad over the speed limit, so as not to stand out and attract undo attention.

 

#

 

Nighttime in the desert. Scully, feeling like the only soul in the universe, ventured across a vast field of night-blue sand, as if guided by a Divine hand. Drawn, perhaps, to the sound of a haunting siren's song which filled the air like heavy perfume. "Mulder!.... Mulder!" she shouted. 

 

No answer. She looked around. Empty desert. She felt the emptiness in her soul. Despondent, she searched the sky. Where had her guiding force gone? Then, far above her, one of the stars began to float down towards her. Brightening, broadening, getting closer and closer. 

 

Scully stared up at it and felt hope and awe fill her up, as if the approaching luminescence was pregnant with the answers to every question she had ever asked.

 

Then the light was blotted out --replaced by the sound of muted knocking in her ear. 

 

She started awake. "Wha--?" She blinked to focus her sleep dulled eyes. Realizing that she had slumped down into the corner of the door and her seat while asleep, she straightened and looked around. She was the only one in the vehicle. The knocking sounded again, directing her attention outside her window, where the shadowy form of Walter Skinner patiently awaited. 

 

Sheepishly, Scully unbelted herself and opened the door. He proffered his hand and helped her step down and into the intense glow of a halogen street light shining directly over them. Scully intuited that this had been the light she had seen in her dream, and she wrestled briefly with her psyche about whether she wished Skinner had let her sleep and follow her dream to its conclusion --whatever that might have been-- or if she was happier never knowing. God forbid she'd awaken yelling: "The solution to world peace is cottage cheese!"

 

"Where are we? What time is it?" she asked.

 

"We're on an Indian Reservation," Skinner nswered. "And, it's just past nine o'clock."

 

Scully looked around and spotted a huge, multi-storied building with a lit facade that would have looked right at home on the Las Vegas strip. "Is that a casino?" she asked.

 

"Yes. Quite the draw, apparently," Skinner said as he led her towards a set of glass doors that was their gateway into the complex. She could see Alex and Gibson, who was trying out his new crutches, some twenty feet ahead of them. 

 

"Why?" Scully asked.

 

"Why the casino, or why the Indian Reservation?"

 

"Both."

 

"Ah. Well, Alex's contact usually hangs out at the casino. After we eat supper, he's going to see if he can spot him in the gaming area. As for the rest, it's a matter of jurisdiction," Skinner elucidated. "While we're on Indian Land, the local law enforcement agencies can't touch us. Even Federal agents have to get permission from the Tribal Police before they can make an arrest. By the time they get that permission, we should be long gone."

 

"And the aliens?" she asked.

 

Skinner shrugged. "If they respected 'No Trespassing' signs, we wouldn't be fighting them in the first place. We're just south of Flagstaff, by the way," Skinner added.

 

Scully sighed. 

 

"Problem?"

 

"No, well..., maybe a little ambivalent. I mean, we're the Good Guys! We're supposed to *enforce* the law, not run from it. I don't know if I should be happy at how easily we've circumvented it, or disappointed."

 

Skinner smiled. "Yeah, I know what you mean. Welcome to Alex's world." 

 

The casino, like most modern hotel casinos, wasn't just a place to gamble, it was a self-contained world with shops and restaurants, and baby-sitting 'activity rooms,' as well as its own security and medical facilities. The gambling floor was in the middle of the casino proper, and all the various shops and amenities as well as the hotel lobby, were spread around it like a shopping mall, which was a good thing, since minors weren't allowed on the gambling floor.

 

They ducked into the first dining establishment they found, and Scully took the opportunity to hit the bathroom. By the time she'd 'freshened up,' they had gotten a semi-private booth in the back, and the men had ordered. Skinner informed her that he had taken the liberty of ordering her a grilled chicken dinner with pilaf, mixed veggies, and a side salad, and a tall glass of lemonade.

 

They were all drinking lemonade, Scully noted. Probably due to Gibson's presence. If she was going to be driving next, however, she wanted coffee, hot, sweet, light, and by the urnful. 

 

Both Skinner and Alex had ordered buffalo steaks, while Gibson, like most kids his age, had disdained the more exotic fare for a more pedestrian beefsteak hamburger and fries.

 

Scully let them down a few bites in peace before she looked at Skinner. "So, what'll we be doing while Krycek is on the prowl for his 'contact,' sir?"

 

Walter cleared his throat. "Well, hopefully, it won't take too long for Alex to hook up with this guy, so we should be able to just hang out here and raid the dessert island, or maybe take a post-prandial stroll through the shops, maybe buy some clothes and toiletries. If worse comes to worse, we'll rent a room and rest up while Alex makes a few calls."

 

"And then what?" Scully pressed.

 

"Then," Alex finished, "said contact should be able to provide us with air service to get us to wherever you want to go. There's a private air field on the res, so we are safe from John Law." 

 

"As long as we clear out in time," Scully, added. "OK, fine. That takes care of our human pursuers. But the alien's could snatch Gibson right off the plane in mid-air, like they did Max Fenig." Scully said.

 

"Only if they know he's on board," Alex replied. "Which I'm betting they won't. My friend's plane has stealth capabilities. If he can jam control tower radar and DEA detectors, I'm betting he can jam alien gizmos, as well." 

 

Scully looked impressed. "That might even work," she admitted.

 

Alex wiggled his eyebrows at her, then looked at Gibson and made a funny face. Gibson laughed.

 

Skinner cleared his throat. "Next order of business: where are we going to go, and what are we going to do with you once we get there, young man?"

 

"Well," Gibson said. "I don't want to be taken by the aliens. And I don't want to live the rest of my life as a lab rat. I want as normal a life as possible. But I *can* see how just knowing someone was human or alien would be way better than having to bleed everybody every time they stepped out of the room. So, if you can get a scientist who will treat me like a human being and let me do as many normal things as possible, he --or she-- can go on the run with me-- unless you can figure out a way to make me invisible to the aliens, so I can stay in one place --someplace where there's not too many people, but where I can get the Cartoon Network and Comedy Central. I'd like that best," he said.

 

"That's a tall order, but we'll do our best," Skinner promised.

 

Alex nodded. Then looked surprised. "How about we ask the Lone Gunmen? If anybody is going to know the latest 'tin foil prevents aliens from scanning your brains' type gadgets, it's got to be those three. Not to mention, they probably have all the components necessary to whip that sort of device up laying around, and, if they don't have it on the premises, they probably know where to get it wholesale at any hour of the day or night."

 

Skinner nodded. "OK. Next stop: Baltimore, Maryland. As for scientists, how do you feel about contacting Marita Covarrubias? I'm pretty sure she had to be the one who got Doggett out here." 

 

Alex pursed his lips. "If that's true, my first thought would be to wonder why she didn't just contact you or Scully --or me, for that matter-- to come and protect Gibson." 

 

"Maybe she didn't want to admit that the only reason she knew Gibson was in danger is because, while we were busy figuring out how to locate the alien's ships, she was busy stealing every bit of technology and intel she could lay her hands on," Skinner guessed.

 

Scully shook her head. "So she preferred to manipulate Doggett by making him believe Mulder was after Gibson? Pretty low tactics for a supposed ally."

 

Alex nodded. "I agree. I'd feel better if Gibson OK'd her before we asked her for anything as potentially indebting as project money. And I'd really prefer to keep Gibson out of any existing Consortium facilities and the kinds of doctors that inhabit them. She may have the resources to fund the research, but those doctors...." he shook his head. "I don't have the money to fund a project like this, but I'd feel a whole lot better if *my* people were in control of Gibson --and any knowledge we gain from him."

 

"We may as well ask the Gunmen for advice on scientists, then, too," Scully said. "If anybody knows the leading benevolent crackpots in their field, it's them. As for funding, I do have control of all of Mulder's not inconsiderable assets. We should be able to keep Gibson safe for a good long while if we set up some kind of trust fund for him. We won't need a huge staff or a state of the art manufacturing facility until we figure out what Gibson's talents are, and how they operate, and that could take years, so basic upkeep and say, one hot shot researcher with some basic eequipment would be sufficient in the beginning." 

 

"Sound good to you, Gibson?" The boy nodded. Skinner nodded back. "That's the plan, then. I suggest we eat up, and get this show on the road."

 

#


	13. Chapter 13

#

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

#

"There is no true security until there is nothing to be secure from --at which time, security is no longer a question." -- John Sandbach, *Astrology, Alchemy, and the Tarot,* 1982 

#

Lone Gunman's Lair, Baltimore, Maryland

Wednesday, June 13th, 8:00 a.m.

#

 

Alex's contact was able to get them back east with no more persuasion than a heavily greased palm, but, not being a heavy carrier, he wasn't able to drop them off at Dulles International, Baltimore-Washington International, or the Ronald Reagan Memorial airports. In fact, their small size necessitated a refueling stop in Little Rock, Arkansas, which almost doubled their over-all transit time, although the actual flight was uneventful. If the aliens had any idea Gibson Praise was onboard, they showed no inclination to pluck him off the plane in mid-air. 

 

They ended up landing at a private light plane field just outside Gaithersberg, Maryland at six-thirty a.m.. It took them an hour and a half to rent a mini-van, drive to Baltimore, and assemble a breakfast feast with which to ease the pain of their early arrival. 

 

Walter's contribution to the meal was two dozen morning fresh donuts, Scully added a half dozen assorted muffins to the mix, then, at Gibson's request, they got morning croi'san'wich combos and orange juice at a local Jack In The Box. Finally, at Alex's insistence, they purchased a pound bag of Kona French roast cinnamon coffee and a spice grinder from the Java Jive coffee emporium. 

 

John Byers answered their insistent pounding looking little-boy rumpled in a bathrobe and slippers, his hair askew in that asymmetrical style only a night in bed could achieve. He led them to a back wall, where a sink, makeshift cabinets, and assortment of convenience appliances, like a coffee maker, microwave oven, and a full sized refrigerator, proclaimed the area the Gunman's *de facto* 'kitchen.' 

 

There was a long table with but a single chair in evidence, but a pile of newspapers, a stack of milk crates, and an up-turned five gallon bucket were quickly pressed into service as make-shift seats, allowing them to make themselves comfortable while Byers excused himself in order to get dressed. Krycek got immediately to work making a fresh pot of Kona coffee. 

 

Emerging from his morning ablutions looking dapper, as usual, Byers led them into the 'war room,' where Langley, who was currently on duty keeping watch on all the UFO's movements they could detect, with especial emphasis on the UFO they suspected Mulder to be on, yelled at Byers to share the wealth. 

 

John, who was actually due to relieve Langley at the monitors at nine a.m., laid out a rasher of goodies within arm's reach, so Ringo could continue to perform his monitoring duties and gnosh at the same time. After a brief and almost telepathic confab with Langley, Byers excused himself again, this time to wake up Frohike, who, his friends decided, needed to enjoy their bountiful repast while it was fresh. 

 

Fortunately, the 'war room' was furnished with ample nooks and crannies with which to cosy up with a meal, so Krycek poured out mugsful of coffee for all --including Gibson, who got a mugful loaded with milk and sugar. 

 

When everyone was happily settled in and munching, John, between bites of coffee-sopped donut, filled his guests in on what the monitors had picked up during their absence.

 

"Once the Colonist's ship came into the area, the Resistance ship slipped away. It's currently zig-zagging across all of North America.," he told them. "Probably looking for Gibson, although we can't be sure of that, of course."

 

Skinner, Scully, and Krycek then took turns relaying their joint and separate adventures to the breakfasting trio, summing up with the need to find a way to protect Gibson from the aliens. Several ways, actually; since they wanted one that could protect an entire house or laboratory facility, and at least one personal unit which could be used outdoors, meaning it had to be portable, battery powered, durable, safe, unobtrusive, convenient, effective, safe, viable over long periods of time, and safe. That meant no unshielded power sources which might give off radiation that would cause brain tumors or epilepsy down the road; a battery containment system that would protect the wearer from battery acid or radiation leaks, in case the batteries corroded or were damaged; and nothing that would look ridiculous and humiliate the wearer into becoming a recluse; or would hamper strenuous physical activities --like running for one's life or playing sports. 

 

As predicted, the Gunmen had a dozen ideas on how to accomplish this feat of engineering, but pinning down one that actually blocked the alien's technology when they didn't actually know how that alien technology worked, would be harder and require lots of testing, experimentation, refinement, and good old guesswork.

 

Since it was Byers' turn to monitor the UFOs activity, Frohike and Langley set to work on the requested brain signal jammer, and, between calls for equipment and supplies, and testing Gibson with a variety of machinery including a Kirilian camera and an electro magnetic resonance meter, the trio bantered casually about whether the UFOs' 'shields,' which had prevented the humans

from physically seeing the downed ship in Oregon, was also what they referred to as a 'cloaking device,' which would render the UFOs undetectable to their own technology, as well. 

 

It was Ringo Langley's contention that a cloaking device that rendered alien technology incapable of detecting their own ships was only logical, since there was no other way the ships could have avoided open conflict with each other after the amount of time they'd spent orbiting Earth. 

 

There was no definitive proof such a cloaking device existed, of course, beyond the fact that the two supposedly enemy ships did not fire on each other the minute they came into close proximity of each other, but Byers felt that that was sufficient proof in and of itself to posit such a device, given the enmity of the factions involved, and the historical evidence that the beings had no patience whatsoever.

 

John Byers argued that it might just be a mutually upheld 'no fire' policy to enable both sides from alerting the humans to their presence. Since ignorance on the part of the general public worked in both factions' favor, as it allowed both sides to come and go among the humans virtually at will, without resorting to extraordinary means to disguise themselves and their agenda, continued human ignorance was vital to both their causes and would be well worth the trouble of living and let living where opposition ships were concerned, or, at least, that was John's assertion. The aliens' lack of conflict between ships was no proof of cloaking technology, in that case, but merely testament to the alien's resolve to keep their troubles to themselves.

 

At this point, Frohike chimed in to conclude that only hard proof, one way or the other, could settle the dispute definitively, and since they had no way of getting said evidence, the argument was moot, and they civilly moved on to other topics of conversation.

 

At the end of all their bantering and tinkering, they unveiled a silly 'colander hat' device, which, when all their hard labor merely earned them a: "and what part of 'it can't humiliate the wearer' did you not understand?" they immediately reassured all parties that it was just for the short term, to insure no aliens came a-knocking while they were refining a more esthetic and portable model that would not only *not* subject the child to mockery, it would also *not* subject his guardian to a mandatory evaluation in the nearest mental institution, but would actually be undetectable as a jamming device, even during a standard airport weapons scan. 

 

With all parties temporarily mollified, they set to work on prototype two, and Skinner broached the subject of finding a scientist who could work with Gibson, and the matter of funding. The Gunmen immediately put in a call to their own benefactor, Jimmy Bond, who was gracious enough to cancel his plans for the day in order to meet with them. 

 

Jimmy was one of those Old Money trust fund baby types, not unlike Mulder, actually. He wasn't the brightest star in the firmament, however, and so, when his father had died, his mother, Alayne, had taken over the Presidency of the parent business that had enabled them to expand into the corporate empire they had become, while the other three satellite businesses had gone to each of his brothers, leaving Jimmy to inherit the Chairmanship of the family's philanthropic Bond Foundation.

 

Jimmy wasn't the sort to bleed funds from his charities to feather his own nest, so his personal bank account was actually 'middle class light' for someone of his pedigree. His decision to live with the Gunmen allowed him to turn over his rent stipend to the trio's publishing company, The Magic Bullet Press, which had assured the monthly publication of their conspiracy rag, 'The Lone Gunman,' for the first time since their inception.

 

What Jimmy Bond lacked in overall brains and filthy lucre, however, he more than made up for with his social contacts, as years of heading up a 501C non-profit organization, and an equally idiot-savant-like skill at fund-raising and international banking, had given his foundation both a healthy amount of respect and clout. The monies he could get them were long term, but he could set up a legitimate front for their funds using his already established bona fides in the philanthropic community --which would stand them in good stead when they went looking for a scientist to head their project.

 

Unfortunately, as far as Jimmy was concerned, Mulder's considerable assets were not sufficient start-up capital for their purposes. Skinner argued with Jimmy on this point, but Jimmy held firm, and since he was the one with all the experience in that area, Walter kicked in his retirement CDs. 

 

Jimmy hemmed and hawed, still unimpressed with their combined bottom line, till Alex mentioned that there was an outside chance he might be able to augment their funds by raiding the Consortium's own bank accounts *if,* and it was a big if, the access codes hadn't been changed or the accounts closed or all but drained during his long stay in Tunisia. 

 

Jimmy considered the problem, and decided that a simultaneous raid on the accounts would reduce the possibility that some kind of alarm could be raised which would prevent them from tapping the other accounts if they accessed them serially. 

 

To that end, Jimmy borrowed five of the Gunman's still working, but obsolete PC's, and, using a little of his foundation's fortune as 'seed' money, he set up two new accounts in the Cayman Islands. He then helped Alex commence five simultaneous transactions, achieved with the willing fingers of his fellow accomplices. All Alex had to do was input the proper account codes and ID passwords on each of the five computers when queried by the bank, then hit the enter key on all five computers at the same time. 

 

While Jimmy was setting the transactions up, Alex excused himself, left the premises, and contacted Jeffery Spender. Alex intended him to be Gibson's guardian and advocate, but he wanted to OK it with Jeffery first. He told Jeffery he would have to break cover and allow Skinner and Scully to know he was still alive in order to get Gibson safely transferred into his care, but Jeffery was quick to OK the plan. In fact, he told Alex he had better let Skinner and Scully know Alex was planning on entrusting Gibson to *his* care, as it would probably ease their minds if they knew a former fibbie was the proposed guardian. 

 

Alex agreed with Jeffery's assessment, at least where Scully was concerned, so, while Jeffery got ready to make an electronic transfer from his own PC, at Alex's signal, Alex returned to the Gunman's lair and explained to Scully and Skinner how he had come to befriend, then kidnap, and by sheer luck, enlist Jeffery Spender as his willing co-conspirator when he caught Spender Sr. on tape assassinating his own 'child.' 

 

Scully, after the first blush of disbelief, was actually pleased. Skinner was surprised. He had assumed that Alex had been working alone all this time, that his occasional talk of 'my people' was but a reference to mercenary allies of the sort Alex had used to get them out of Arizona. Upon reflection, he realized that his had been a condescending attitude, and that there just might be more to Alex's 'organization' than he'd given the boy credit for. It was both a heartening and a humbling realization.

 

#

 

Because each of the proposed money transactions were processed simultaneously, even if more than one account was at the same bank, each transaction would necessarily be handled by separate clerks at that bank at roughly the same moment, so, if any of the codes were out-dated, there would be no opportunity for any 'red flags' to block the other transactions. The only problem would be if the account codes had been altered or their assets drained, because, then, of course, they would wind up alerting the Consortium that an unauthorized agent had tried to access their accounts, and they wouldn't have gotten any money for their troubles.

 

As it turned out, Spender had indeed closed one, and altered the ID codes on a second account, but Alex was still able to nip four million dollars from the other three accounts and transfer it into one of the Cayman Island accounts.

 

Jimmy then transferred all but one and a half million of that sum into the second Cayman Island account. When that transfer was confirmed, Alex gave Jeffery the pass code to the first account, so he could transfer the rest of the money into a series of other accounts, some domestic, some foreign, but all his, and known only to him, which automatically closed the first Cayman account, and, since the sums going from each account to the new account, and in and out of the new account were not the same, it would make it harder for anyone tracking the money to figure out where it had gone. And since no domestic transfers were in sums higher than nine thousand dollars, they were not subject to an automatic IRS notification from the receiving banks, which made the paper trail that much harder to discern.

 

Jimmy then transferred his 'seed' money from the second Cayman account back to its original U.S. account. Alex took half a million of the new funds and scattered it into his own 'emergency stash' accounts all across the globe, while Jimmy designated the remaining two million dollars as a new scientific foundation of his making, which would fund the research and overhead as the need arose.

 

For the next step in their plan, since they were using Jimmy's impressive family philanthropic foundation to influence their prospective head scientist, and since it was essential for Gibson to evaluate the candidates, Skinner's bunch left the Gunmen to their own devices and followed Jimmy back to his family's estate in Greensboro, Maryland. 

 

Once there, Jimmy used his status as a well-known, eccentric philanthropist to personally contact each candidate on the Gunmen's prospect list and invite them to 'head his new research project,' which would explore brain wave patterns, and the detection, and counter- detection of same, which would require periods of isolation from the outside world, with possible mandatory travel, for a modest stipend plus room and board in a semi-private abode. Only three of the individuals so contacted, none of whom had family or financial ties to their communities, were ready for that severe of a job change, but they all agreed to meet with Jimmy for a personal interview ASAP. 

 

Jimmy arranged for his mother's private jet to round the three finalists up and deliver them to her mansion the next day, and, since none of them wanted to leave Gibson alone until his fate had been settled, Jimmy invited them to stay the night. He had the cook prepare fried pork chops, mashed potatoes and milk gravy, collared greens, and rice pudding with rum raisins; a dinner Elvis might have swooned over, but which, naturally, horrified Scully. She ate her greens and potatoes and sniffed at the pudding as if the aromas of vanilla, cinnamon, and rum just might tempt her iron will --but iron will won out.

 

(Jimmy's mother, Alayne, having been informed that her son was staying to dine with guests she herself had not invited to the mansion, took her own, quite different, dinner in the upstairs salon.) 

 

When it was time to head up to bed, Alex chose to room with Gibson, the better to protect him. Gibson, in order to keep the silly looking helmet on, had to sleep sitting up. Between that and his cast, he was one uncomfortable little boy. But he bore it without complaint. He even laughed privately to himself as Walter and Alex, parting at their respective bedroom doors, both sulked and mooned over the fact that they were under the same roof, yet could not enjoy the pleasure of each other's bodies.

 

"It's OK if you'd rather go fool around with Mr. Skinner," Gibson told Alex. "I don't think the aliens are going to find me as long as I'm wearing this jammer."

 

Alex froze. He'd been in the midst of plumping up the bed pillows to make a more comfortable 'nest' for Gibson. He gripped the pillow, almost as if he wanted to smother the boy, although Gibson knew he was actually trying to control his fear. Alex tucked the pillow behind Gibson's head, then held his index finger to his lips, looking Gibson straight in the eye. "Not a word about Walter and me to anybody, you hear?" he growled.

 

"Cross my heart," Gibson promised at once, knowing how important a secret it was to Alex.

 

Alex sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "And FYI, Mr. Lonely-hearts, I'm spending the night with *you* because it's *way* easier if Walter and I *aren't* in the same room torturing each other with our proximity when we can't do anything about it without revealing the nature of our relationship to others, which we need to hide because bad people could use it against us.... Actually," Alex said, after a moment's consideration, "there are a few 'good' people who might not understand our relationship and try to break us up, too. And if the people Walter works for find out, he could lose his job. So it's an important secret, OK?"

 

"I understand."

 

"Good. Now, why don't you try to get some sleep, hm?"

 

"I'm not really tired," Gibson said. "I slept on the plane and in the car, both. Tell me about Scully's baby."

 

"The bad people abducted her once, and took all her eggs away so she couldn't make babies. Scully really wanted to be a Mommy, so when she found out her eggs were gone, she was very sad. Then, a few years later, Mulder found her eggs. Scully was so happy, she wanted to make a baby right away. But because her eggs weren't in her, she couldn't have a baby the normal way, so she found a fertility clinic and Mulder donated his sperm --you know what that is?"

 

"Yeah, we saw the sex education film at school."

 

"OK. So, Mulder donated his sperm, and the doctor was supposed to mix Mulder's sperm with Scully's eggs and make a baby to put in her womb. What Scully didn't know is that this doctor was secretly working for the Consortium. He had been using the fertility clinic to disguise his experiments in making hybrid babies. So, instead of getting her and Mulder's baby, she got a hybrid baby instead. The thing is, she doesn't know it, because her fertility doctor has been hiding the truth from her."

 

"But you found out."

 

"Yeah. When she was in the woods in Oregon, looking for the Rebel UFO, she ran into their shields, and somehow, they could tell. So, when I talked to them, they told me. And, well, I asked if they could make a baby from Mulder's sperm, and I stole some of Scully's eggs from the fertility clinic, so the baby would be part Scully, too, just like it was supposed to be and, when the time is right, we'll exchange the babies, so Scully will have a normal human baby just like she always wanted."

 

Gibson laughed. "Normal!" he giggled. "No kid of Mulder's is ever going to be normal, especially not one that was conceived aboard a UFO!"

 

Alex frowned. "Why?"

 

"Because, once Mulder's God Module was activated, he could do everything I can," Gibson said. "The only difference was: he hadn't done it all his life, so he didn't understand what was happening to him and he couldn't control it. That's what drove him insane. Temporarily. He would probably have been diagnosed as schizophrenic, if they hadn't cut the God Module out of him. Training Mulder to control his telepathy is the biggest problem the aliens are having with him. 

 

"The thing is, Mulder's mental abilities are genetic, *any* children he has will share his genes *and* his trigger, which is exposure to Cosmic Radiation, which is the kind you can only get outside a planet's atmosphere, which the UFO's are *loaded* with. So, since the God Module of any child of Mulder's is turned on by cosmic radiation, any baby conceived on board a UFO is going to be born telepathic, just like me! In fact, since the aliens are trying to heal Mulder's God Module, he might regain his ability to detect them again, too. Of course, if the aliens find out, 

they'll probably fix it so he can't. But, since he doesn't know that's what he's doing, they might turn him loose without realizing he can. One thing for sure, none of them will have any reason to suspect that his babies will have his abilities until their brains mature but, once his baby's born, it's going to need a brain jammer, just like me."

 

"Damn! I wish you hadn't told me that! If I have to meet the aliens before Mulder is released and the baby is exchanged, well, they could read everything from my head and do something to Mulder *and* the baby. Scully has to have a normal looking human baby, Gibson, no matter what paranormal abilities he displays later. Being used to gestate a hybrid would kill Scully --maybe in more ways than one!" Alex exclaimed.

 

Gibson chewed his lip. "Don't worry, Alex. You're already hard to read. I'll just teach you a few tricks I've been working on since I started at Flemington. Combined with your natural ability to block your thoughts, it might make your thoughts impenetrable."

 

"Do you think I'll have time to learn how to block my thoughts before you have to go?"

 

Gibson shrugged. "Only one way to find out."

 

Alex nodded. "Yeah. OK. Good enough. But, for right now, let's try and get some sleep."

 

"Promise me you'll make sure Mulder's baby is protected from *them.*"

 

"I promise," Alex said, crossing his heart.

 

Gibson smiled. "Good. Maybe, one day, we'll get to be friends. It would be nice to have a friend who can do the things I can," he said wistfully. "I almost feel like we're friends already." He clutched the pillow sham as if it were a precious Teddy bear, and closed his eyes with a smile.

 

Alex sat in a chair, put his legs up on the bed, and closed his own eyes, resolutely *not* thinking about Walter.

 

#

 

The next day, the three scientist candidates were ensconced in a drawing room, then, one by one, ushered into the study, where they signed a non-disclosure contract and discussed their bona fides with Alex, Walter, and Dana, while Jimmy played Nerf catch with Gibson. Alex, Walter, and Dana made notes, asked questions, and spelled out the need for total secrecy, emphasizing that there might be hostile agencies at work, within the United States and outside it, that would not hesitate to kill them to obtain Gibson or their research. Then that scientist was sent back to the waiting room while the next candidate was interviewed. 

 

When they were all finished, Gibson made his choice, the decision was announced, and all three scientists were put back on the jet and taken home, since even Dr. Holly Hauptmann, the lucky chosen one, had to go back and wrap up her life as she had known it before she could embark on the adventure of a lifetime, with the aim of benefitting all mankind. 

 

# 

 

Doggett, back in the Hoover after a three day search for Skinner, Scully, and Gibson Praise ended fruitlessly in the parking lot of a rental car agency in Arizona, stood in Deputy Director Kersh's office waiting for Kersh to finish perusing Doggett's case file summary.

 

Kersh flipped through the report, noting with distaste the photos taken in the hospital where Skinner and company got away. "The best I can say is: it's lucky it all happened at a hospital."

 

"Very lucky, yes, sir," Doggett agreed.

 

"I assume the hazardous materials or chemicals which caused the contamination were stolen from the hospital's own supplies?"

 

"That has yet to be determined, sir." 

 

"Much of what I'm reading here is 'yet to be determined...' as is the whereabouts of Mulder. But some of your facts, like: 'a man falls from the cliff and disappears;' 'an agent has his throat crushed by an assailant who vanishes into thin air,' reads like a piece of pot-boiled science fiction." 

 

"You mean it reads like an X-File," Doggett bristled. "Permission to speak freely, sir?"

 

Kersh eyed Doggett as if considering what he might say. "Very well. What is it?"

 

"I'd like to know the real reason you assigned me to this case. Was it because you thought I'd be too skeptical to file an honest report, or because you knew I *would* file an honest report, and you wanted a legitimate excuse to make me look bad so you'd have something to tuck into my performance jacket that would justify passing me over for promotion?"

 

"I was hoping you'd continue to perform up to your usual standards, John. I don't assign cases in order to sabotage careers. And if *I* might speak freely: you disappoint me. I was hoping you would give me enough ammunition to close the X-Files Department once and for all. So go find me some damned answers." He handed the file back to Doggett. "The *right* answers. And don't come back until you do."

 

"Yes, sir!" Doggett pivoted smartly and exited Kersh's office with quick, purposeful strides, only years of discipline allowing him to contain his sneer of disgust until he reached the relative safety of the elevator. "Politics!" That was what this was all about. Power politics. Doggett felt like vomiting. "Your tax dollars at work," he murmured sarcastically. Seems he would need to pull a few all-nighters in order to familiarize himself more intimately with Fox Mulder's career. Not to mention Scully's, Kersh's, Assistant Director Walter S. Skinner's, and the X-Files, themselves. 

 

#

 

Since Dr. Hauptmann owed her employer two weeks notice before she could leave her present job, and she requested additional time, over and above that, to facilitate packing and moving her things into storage, Gibson and Alex remained in Greensboro with Jimmy Bond, playing strange, private games, watching cartoons, and snooping discreetly in the garage and attic for 'fun stuff.' 

 

On one such 'forbidden' excursion with Jimmy they found an old Radio Flyer wagon and, in no time, Alex and/or Jimmy were taking turns hauling Gibson around the estate like a one or two horse shay, which was much easier --and faster --and way more fun-- than having him use his crutches. 

 

They learned a lot more about Jimmy and his family, in the process. 

 

Jimmy Bond had three brothers, John, Jude, and Joshua, who were two, four, and six years older than him, but you would never have known it, as there were no pictures of them anywhere in the mansion, and Alayne never mentioned them. 

 

Jimmy's father had inherited his own father's business and had developed and expanded it into an empire of four major, if interdependent, companies. Thinking that his sons would do with their businesses what he had done with his, Jay Bond had bequeathed each of his satellite companies to one of the older boys. Since no one in the family believed that Jimmy had what it took to run a company, his father left his first business to his wife, and left Jimmy the Chairmanship of the family's philanthropic foundation, which had been more of a figurehead position when Jay had held it before him, but included a stipend which would enable Jimmy to live comfortably, if not extravagantly. 

 

Instead of building up their respective companies and expanding the Bond family empire even further, however, the three older brothers had dismantled Jay Bond's dream by selling off their businesses to a British, a Japanese, and a Saudi Arabian company, respectively, within years of their father's demise. John did it because he needed the revenue to support his jet-set life of leisure; Jude needed the revenue to start up a dot com venture --which had subsequently crashed and burned; and Joshua hadn't wanted to be in *that* particular kind of business, and had used the proceeds to buy a company more to his liking. None of them had offered to sell their businesses back to their mother, and none of them had seemed to care that they'd stripped their mother's company of the support structure that had made it so profitable, or that said stripping caused the parent company's stock to tank, leaving the business open to a hostile take-over that had only been averted by means of a 'poisoned well' maneuver, which had left the company stripped of assets and in Chapter 11.

 

Jimmy's mother was so angry at her sons' cavalier disregard for their inheritance and her own well being, that she had disowned the three of them, cut them from her will, banned them and their families from the estate, stripped any signs of them from the mansion, and forbid their names to be uttered in her presence. 

 

A baser human would have gloated at his siblings' fall from grace, or, at the very least, reveled at becoming the sole remaining heir of an estate which was, despite its current diminished state, still considerable, especially compared to the individual assets he currently possessed, but Jimmy was only sad that he could no longer talk about his brothers, or the good times they'd had growing up on the estate, which was one reason why he enjoyed the Lone Gunmen's company so much, for they had become the brothers he missed so sorely. 

 

Jimmy then related the story of how he had come to join the Gunmen. Seems the trio had been investigating some industrial spies and secrets brokers who were carefully setting Jimmy up to take the fall for their nefarious deeds, by putting his name on all the prominent documents that linked them to their evil doings. They had secured Jimmy's participation by selling him a franchise team in their 'blind football league.' The league was bogus, of course, and the franchise just a convenient means of moving and laundering money. Jimmy's team was the only one that actually existed. When his partners --and the blind football league-- had been exposed as frauds, Jimmy, instead of disbanding his team in disgrace, had expanded it on his own with his Foundation's money, turning his team, the Fox Bats, into an exhibition squad that travelled the country promoting the establishment of a nationwide network of rehabilitation sports camps with 'special needs' equipment for blind males of all ages. They had just opened their first facility in Austin, Texas, and, of course, the 'original' facility was still in place in Long Island, New York.

 

While Alex and Gibson were being entertained by Jimmy, and since it had become clear that her unexpected guests were going to be in residence for some time to come, Alayne had her butler, Giles, find Alex and Gibson suitable dining clothes, and, upon the receipt --and donning-- of same, they were finally graced with her presence at dinner. 

 

Alex, who enjoyed a challenge, turned on the charm and gradually wrangled a decent bio from her via pleasant dinner conversation. 

 

Alayne, he discovered, had grown up monied, but was vehemently opposed to spending so much as a penny outside the country, so she had never stepped foot outside the continental U.S., and was proud of it. She even considered Alaska, Hawaii, Guam, American Samoa, the Virgin Islands, and Puerto Rico foreign countries. If it wasn't one of the forty-eight contiguous states, it wasn't America. 

 

Alayne didn't understand how there could be poor people in the country when there was so much public assistance. She disapproved of comic books, TV, and the space program, and she had given up a successful career as a buyer for a major department store to marry her late husband, Jay, (whom she still mourned), because he wouldn't tolerate any wife of his working outside the home. She was currently running the lone surviving 'family' business every bit as effectively as her husband had --and was having more fun doing it than she'd ever had staying at home raising children and hosting the endless, seasonal parade of obligatory dinner parties and 'functions' for her husband. 

 

This led to a discussion with Jimmy about the preparations for the Bond's annual Fourth of July party. When Jimmy ticked off all the things he had accomplished, including the purchase of eight thousand dollars worth of fireworks, Gibson begged to be invited. 

 

Before Jimmy said 'yes,' he asked Alex when Dr. Hauptmann was coming to pick Gibson up. 

 

Alex, with a flash of inspiration, decided that July 4th would be the perfect time for Jeffery and Dr. Hauptmann to take custody of Gibson, as there would be so many 'strange' people around, no one would take much notice of one or two more, and promptly said so. 

 

"In that case," Alayne graciously interjected, surprising them all, "you and all your little friends must absolutely be our guests for the celebration. It will be great fun, and our pleasure, I'm sure."

 

Gibson whooped joyfully and thanked his hostess profusely as only an enthusiastic boy could.

 

Mrs Bond smiled, announced that dinner was over, excused herself, and promptly quit the dining room for her bedroom.

 

Jimmy excused himself, next, in order to extend the new invitations and announce the new plans for the transfer of custody to all the involved parties.

 

Alex's smile never wavered but, once the Bond's were out of ear shot, he leaned over and confided to Gibson that: "If you and I both died tonight, we'd have done more living in our combined fifty-two years than Jimmy's mom would if she lived to be a hundred and four." 

 

"If leading a normal, boring life means never having to meet another alien as long as I live, I'd rather die of boredom with Mrs. Bond," Gibson replied.

 

Alex, after a moment's reflection, allowed as how Gibson had a point, and he never uttered another disparaging comment about Jimmy Bond's mother as long as he lived. 

 

#

 

Skinner and Scully, having safely stashed Gibson at the Bond estate and overseen the appointment of his new scientist 'guardian,' returned to work, where they steadfastly refused to answer any of Kersh's or Doggett's questions about their time in Arizona beyond issuing a joint, blanket statement that, as they were agents in good standing and had not broken any Federal laws, (since a superior officer is not obliged to obey an underling, while Special Agent Scully was merely obeying the orders of the higher ranking officer present, which was not only right, but proper), and as they had officially been on their own time during the events in question, they were under no obligation to discuss the matter. 

 

A talk with OPC did not budge them from their positions. 

 

Kersh made noises about putting them on punishment duties, to which Skinner responded by sending Kersh a memo which showed his remaining accrued vacation and sick leave time, and his department's sick day statistics for the month, along with a speculation on how he might come down with any number of maladies during the remainder of the calendar year. 

 

Kersh might have been the Deputy Director of the F.B.I., responsible for the day to day operations of the entire organization, but Skinner was the Assistant Director in charge of the Criminal Investigations Division, and, as such, had eighty percent of the agents in the F.B.I. under his direct supervision. To have a man with his responsibilities repeatedly dump his case load onto his Deputy Assistant Director's shoulders willy nilly could conceivably disrupt the very efficiency of the Bureau itself, not to mention its affect on morale. 

 

Kersh dropped the matter.

 

#

 

The Gunmen continued to work triple-time, monitoring the UFOs, building a portable jammer for Gibson, and putting out the latest edition of 'The Lone Gunman.' 

 

They also contacted several UFO fanatics around the country, swore them to secrecy, and informed them as to how they, too, could track UFOs from the comfort of their own homes. Invitations and pass words were sent out, and opinions were proffered, but, eventually, these more dedicated UFO devotees took over all the monitoring, collating, and site up-dating, freeing the Gunmen from the onerous duty entirely, while still allowing them total access to up-to-date information on the UFOs' whereabouts.

 

#

 

Doggett ground his teeth in frustration as all his leads on Gibson Praise *and* Mulder went cold. He spent the rest of June reading the restored X-Files case files, while the other members of his tactical team chased down leads on Mulder's whereabouts and continued their in depth investigations into Skinner, Kersh, Scully, and Mulder. 

 

With the power vested in him by Kersh himself, Doggett transferred Monica Reyes, with her consent, from the New Orleans Field Office to Headquarters, and installed her as his new ASAC, replacing Agent Crane. Their first act as official teammates was to review his Arizona file and take a field trip to the sanatorium where Eddie Blundht resided. 

 

Advance warning had allowed Eddie to temporarily skip his muscle relaxant meds so he could do his Mark Hamill impersonation for the visiting Fibbies. If that wasn't enough to convince them of the reality of shape-shifters, Eddie obligingly morphed into Mulder, then Doggett, and topped off his performance by doing his doctor, for which he was tackled and drugged on the spot before anyone could confuse the pair and possibly allow Eddie to walk out of the facility unchallenged. 

 

With the video he had made of Eddie Blundht, and the lab results of the dissolved pseudo agent he had received from Arizona, in hand, Doggett went to Kersh's office with what he hoped would be definitive proof that something weird was going on out there. 

 

At the end of Doggett's presentation, Kersh intimated that a posting to Greenland would look good in comparison to where Doggett was going to end up if he didn't stop wasting Bureau time and money on frivolous matters of no importance and start focusing his attention on finding Mulder. 

 

Doggett returned to his office and related the entire meeting to Monica, who suggested they put a rush on the reports on Kersh and Skinner. He did. In the meantime, they continued to explore the X-files case by case. By the time the July 4th Holiday rolled around, Doggett had read all the restored X-files, as well as the profiles of all the principals involved, including Kersh, and, with Monica's tacit encouragement and vocal blessing, he decided to meet privately with Skinner and Scully. 

 

He initiated the meeting by arranging for he and Monica to 'bump into' Skinner in the Hoover's garage after work. "We've got to talk, sir, strictly off the clock," Doggett said. "If it's not too inconvenient, I'd like to invite you over to my place for a Fourth of July barbecue. Special Agent Monica Reyes, here, will be attending as well, and I'd appreciate it if you'd bring Special Agent Scully along as your, um, 'date.'"

 

"Why?" Skinner asked, with a carefully neutral intonation.

 

"I'd like to discuss some of the things I've uncovered in my investigation, bring you up to date, get your opinions; that sort of thing. Strictly casual and off the cuff, like," Doggett said.

 

"Mm. Well, as intriguing as your invitation sounds, I already have a prior commitment, Agent Doggett. Commitments I'm not of a mind to cancel."

 

"That's OK, sir," Monica said cheerfully. "We would be happy to join you at your celebration, if it wouldn't be too much of an imposition. We'll try to blend in, and not take up too much of your personal time with, uh, 'shop talk.'"

 

Skinner stared from one earnest face to the other, then harumphed. "All right." He gave them Jimmy's 'home' address. "And if you were serious about having barbecue, bring your gear and fixings. We're having a grill off, and I expect you to participate."

 

"Yes, sir!" Doggett just barely resisted the urge to salute.

 

#

 

Jeffery Spender had spent the rest of June finding a piece of real estate that met Gibson's and Dr. Holly Hauptmann's exacting standards, as well as readying new identities for himself and Gibson. Whether they settled into the new place immediately or held it in reserve for some future date was dependent upon the quality and range of the Lone Gunman's second generation jamming devices. Buying now, whatever the future held, was just a hedge against inflation and last minute carelessness.

 

Jeffery wasn't sure he was ready for the responsibilities of child-rearing, but he did owe Krycek his life, and if this would, in some way, help The Cause, he knew he had to do it, for his mother's sake, if nothing else, //May God rest her soul.// He *was* secretly pleased that, as a direct result of Krycek's need to hide Gibson, Krycek was no longer the only person on Earth who knew he was alive. The three years he'd spent isolated and alone, stashed away in one of Krycek's bolt holes, had been the loneliest, most fear filled of his life.

 

Luckily, Krycek had set Jeffery up with his own bank accounts almost immediately, not so much because Alex trusted Jeffery, but because Alex believed that the shit would hit the fan sooner or later, and since he was apt to be smack dab in the middle of the shit storm, Jeffery's autonomy was a necessary evil. 

 

Alex carefully prepped Jeffery on the finer points of living life on the run, including such things as making and faking new identity papers and avoiding run-in's with police, reporters, and civilians with cameras and video phones. Thanks to Alex's tutoring and vast amounts of liquid assets, Jeffery hadn't had to worry about being tossed out on his ear without a dime to his name or a way to make a living during Alex's unexpected 'radio silence.' Still, despite all his preparation, the prospect of having to carry on without Alex to bolster him, daunted the younger Spender, all the more so in light of Krycek's unplanned eight month absence, which Alex had briefly explained to Jeffery in a series of e-mails, once he had returned to the States.

 

Now, no matter the fate of the property, his readiness, or his nerves, Jeffery would be taking custody of Gibson Praise at the Bond Family's Fourth of July picnic, after the fireworks display. 

 

Possibly the most important contribution he would make to The Cause. And boy, oh boy! was he aware of that. He felt as if he were a Secret Service Agent that had finally reached the pinnacle of his calling by making the POTUS detail. //Christ on a cracker!// Him. Responsible for protecting another life at this point in his own? //Oh, God! Let me do a good job!// 

 

#


	14. Chapter 14

#

CHAPTER FOURTEEN 

#

"When spiderwebs unite, they can tie up a lion." --Ethiopian proverb

#

Jay and Alayne Bond Estate, Greensboro, Maryland. 

Wednesday, July 4th

#

 

One advantage to having three less businesses and their employees to take into consideration, was the ability to hold the annual 'Independence Day Company Picnic' on the Bond's estate grounds. This year, in addition to the employees of Bond Industries and their families, and the players and staff of The Fox Bats and their families; Skinner and his last minute guests, Doggett and Reyes; the Lone Gunmen, Dr. Holly Hauptmann, Alex, Gibson, Jeffery, and Scully and her family were also invited. 

 

Also in attendance would be the two man pyrotechnic crew who would handle the fireworks display; the nurse; the caterers and wait staff; the parking valets; the additional security men; the sound and light crew; and the fifty member symphonic band, who would be playing a pre-fireworks display set in addition to a fireworks finale. 

 

Alayne Bond kicked off the festivities by welcoming everyone on behalf of her deceased husband, Jay. She then gave an end of the fiscal year 'State of the Union' type report on Bond Industries. She then turned the mike over to Jimmy. He also started with a welcoming speech, and a summary of the year's accomplishments and next year's goals for the various Bond charities. He then pointed out the various venues and amenities that had been set up on the grounds for their guests. 

 

There was a central picnic area, in front of which were the 'racing lanes' for the usual organized picnic games like egg rolling, orange passing, sack, and three legged races, as well as bean bag and ring toss booths. Behind those were the bandstand and the 'Marshall's' dais, a long table that held all the trophies for the organized games and other contests. Behind the dais was the nurse's station, an RV mobile clinic with all the amenities, including a field OR and handicapped toilet, in case anyone needed First Aid. 

 

To the left of the picnic area was a field for casual pick-up games of frisbee and hula hoops, and three different lengths of Slip N' Slide type water slides for the kids, and a battery of porta-potties and a couple hand pump wash basin/ drinking fountains, attached to a couple fifty-five gallon drums of potable water. 

 

On the picnic area's right was a baseball field for the 2nd annual 'Secret Agents' vs. 'Fox Bats' game, which used special noise making balls, bats, bases, player's belts, and foul lines, that enabled Jimmy's blind athletes to vie with their sighted competitors; and, to the picnic area's rear were the food tables for the pie eating contest, the pie judging contest, the ice cream crankers, and the barbecue grillers. 

 

Dana Scully arrived with her mother, Maggie; her older brother Bill; Bill's wife, Tara; and their two-and-a-half-year-old son, Matthew; Dana's younger brother, Charles; his wife Trish; and their son, Sean, seven. 

 

Both Bill and Charlie were career Navy, like their Dad, William, may he. R.I.P. Bill was a Lt. Comdr. stationed at Miramar Naval Air Base, in San Diego, while Charlie was a Naval Intelligence Officer stationed at the Naval Base in Norfolk, Virginia. Trish's first husband, Dale, had been a friend of Charles' who had died during the Gulf War. Their two boys, Patrick, sixteen, and Michael, fifteen, were at their paternal grandparents' for the holiday. 

 

Alex, having been warned about Doggett and Reyes' presence, had donned a long wig, baseball cap, and baggy coveralls, which allowed him to roam the grounds freely, keeping an eye on Gibson, his trash picker stick and over-the-shoulder canvas trash sack hiding his holstered Glock. For his first 'task' of the day, he pulled Gibson, in the Radio Flyer wagon, over to the Scully family picnic blankets then, as befits a mere peon, left without introducing himself. 

 

Gibson watched Dana watch Alex with round eyes, but when it became clear Alex wasn't staying, Scully relaxed and introduced Gibson to her family as a boy she and Mulder had befriended on a case, once, who was here to meet his new foster family.

 

Jimmy took his megaphone and moved to the food venue, next, introducing the contestants in the annual grill off. Skinner, Doggett, Frohike, and six other contestants had four hours to cook up everything from shrimp to whole roast pig. 

 

Monica, having ridden over with Doggett in his pick-up truck, was pressed into service as a beast of burden, helping to carry his grilling paraphernalia to the site of the grilling competition. This included a Weber kettle grill; a 'stuff box' loaded with a five quart cook pot, grilling and regular utensils, a bag of charcoal briquets, a charcoal chimney, a wood chip smoker, grill brush, basting brush, cooking oil, Pam, napkins, oven mitts, an apron, a fire extinguisher, and a first aid kit; a five gallon lidded bucket full of bratwurst, chicken, cabbage, and onions in beer brine; an ice chest full of buns, beer --for drinking, and condiments; a propane tank; a two burner propane camp stove; a couple of folding lawn chairs, and a beach umbrella. Once they got his equipment unloaded and set up, he fired up the charcoal and the propane stove, set his brats to boiling in a beer broth bath, and set his 'slave' free to wander the grounds in search of Scully. (Finding Walter was no chore, as he and his own grilling paraphernalia were already present and accounted for.)

 

Once the grillers had been introduced and the grills and barbecues lit, Jimmy moved over to introduce the ice cream crankers, who were competing for fastest freeze, and best flavor. They loaded their identical two gallon capacity White Mountain Ice Cream makers and set to work, hand cranking their own special recipes of ice cream, while the duly appointed crank monitor, Byers, equipped with a dynamometer adapted specifically to judge the psi of the hand cranks, monitored the proceedings so Jimmy could move on to the dessert table. 

 

The ice cream had to attain a specific density before the cranking could be considered 'done.' As each cranker declared himself 'done,' it was Byer's job to test their cranks. The first cranker to claim 'done-ness' whose crank was within a specific range of psi, would be declared the winner. 

 

Over at the dessert table, Jimmy and his fellow judges: the Fox Bats' MVP, the Fox Bat's head coach, and Bond Industries' President and Floor Foreman, were busy sampling the entries, writing down, (or dictating), their judgements, and tallying the votes. After that, they debated the close calls. Finally, Jimmy announced and awarded the ribbons for best pie, and best cake. Then they held the pie eating contest. 

 

Maggie Scully urged Gibson, who had refused to leave the mansion until the Lone Gunmen showed up with their promised 'stealth' model jamming device, which looked like two behind the ear hearing aids joined by a cigarette pack sized remote control box, to enter the pie eating contest. Gibson had never been in a pie eating contest before, so he allowed himself to be persuaded. He seemed to get as much blueberry pie filling in his mouth, as he got around it and down the front of the plastic garbage bag the contestants all wore to protect their clothing, and he didn't win a ribbon, but he returned to the Scully picnic blanket with a broad, purple grin on his face, much to Maggie's delight. 

 

After the pie eating contest, Jimmy conferred with Byers and announced the winner of the fastest ice cream cranker. Once the ice cream had been cranked to within a specific density, it was physically impossible for it to freeze any harder, so the canisters were covered with salted ice and cold blankets, and left to set up. After about thirty minutes, the canisters were pulled out of the ice and were ready to be tasted, which Jimmy and his judging team happily did. They wrote down their favorites, compared notes, and announced the best flavor ice cream. Jimmy then awarded the ribbons to the winners of both ice cream categories, after which the remainder of the pies, cakes, and ice creams were dished up and doled out to the lucky first-comers. 

 

Jimmy moved back to the Marshall's dais in order to announce the formal races. 

 

Dr. Hauptmann and Jeffery Spender, who introduced himself as Troy Erlichman, arrived within a few minutes of each other, and introduced themselves as Gibson's doctor and new foster parent. Scully acted as if she had never met Jeffery before, but she shook his hand with unusual vigor.

 

Gibson's broken leg kept him from competing in most of the formal races, but he didn't seem to mind being confined to the four blanket square of territory that the Scully's had claimed as their own when he had Maggie Scully's fried chicken and fixing's to mollify him. But, when it came time to pass oranges, where all you had to do was stand in a line and receive and pass on an orange held under your chin, Maggie Scully once again whipped Gibson, as well as her own three kids, Dana, Charlie, and Bill, and Dr. Hauptmann and 'Troy Erlichman', off their keister and into the entity known as: Team Scully. They did not win a trophy, but they did give Gibson a fit of giggles since they passed the orange from Bill to Maggie, to Gibson to Dana, to Charlie to Holly to Jeffery.

 

When all the races had been won, it was time for baseball. The Fox Bats won for the second year in a row, 7 to 4. Then it was time for Jimmy to move back to the other side of the field and judge the grill off. 

 

Frohike's pig, roasted Chinese style in a 'La Caja China' box barbecue, won the first place ribbon, Doggett's beer brined chicken took second place, and one of the football players' wives won third for her pork spare ribs. 

 

After the grill off ribbons had been awarded, and the fruits of the grill cut up and distributed to all comers, Jimmy introduced the symphonic band, who performed a mini- concert of old time honky-tonk sing-a-longs and polkas from the gay nineties to the roaring twenties, then a medley of patriotic favorites, concluding with the Stars and Stripes Forever, as accompanied by fireworks. 

 

At the conclusion of the fireworks display, the estate's perimeter lights were turned on, and Alayne and Jimmy each took turns at the mike bidding their guests good-bye before heading up the exodus to the mansion's driveway, which was doing duty as the valet and handicapped parking area, and which was currently packed as solid as sardines in a labyrinthian can.

 

Their guests graciously took the hint to vacate the premises, packing up their picnic baskets, blankets, frisbees, grills, umbrellas, and children with the langurous leisure of the truly sated, and, lining up like lines of ants, they filed out the estate gate nearest to their parked cars, which were lining the perimeter of the estate like a wall of automotive pontoons. 

 

All of Jimmy's 'little friends' had been given predesignated parking spots in the V.I.P. parking area, with the exception of Jeffery's van, which was parked in one of the handicapped spots, a conveniently shadowed nook behind some Italian Cyprus. Walter and John were able to enlist the aid of their fellow conspirators to tote their grilling gear to their vehicles en masse, which allowed them to catch up to the Bonds, who were shaking their V.I.P. guests' hands in a gracious good-bye before they retired to the mansion.

 

"Wow! That was the best 4th of July celebration ever!" Gibson enthused from the bed of the Radio Flyer, which Alex had towed one last time across the extensive lawn in order to spare Gibson the arduous trek over the grassy, uneven ground on his crutches. "Thanks for inviting me to the party, Mrs. Bond, and thanks for letting me stay with you until after the party, Jimmy!" Gibson said, launching into his own formal good-byes.

 

"You're very welcome, young man," Alayne said sincerely.

 

"Hey, you're welcome, little fella," Jimmy smiled. "I'm glad you enjoyed it. I need to see to some 'special guests,' now, so you take care, huh?"

 

"I will.

 

"Thanks for letting me stay on the Scully family blankets, Mrs. Scully. It was like having a mom again, if just for a little while."

 

"Aw, you're more than welcome, Gibson," Maggie Scully said, leaning down to give the boy a hug and kiss on the cheek. "I enjoyed having you. Congratulations on getting a new family. You behave yourself, now."

 

"I will," Gibson promised as the Scullys headed over to their own van.

 

"Frohike, Ringo, Mr. Byers, thanks for finding me a scientist who'll be good to me, and for the jamming device, and everything," Gibson continued.

 

"You're welcome, kid," Frohike said, with a casual slap on Gibson's shoulder.

 

"Yeah," Langley said, waving his hand. 

 

"We were proud to be of service," Byers said, leaning down to shake Gibson's hand.

 

"Alex?"

 

"Yeah, Gibson?"

 

"Thanks for protecting me."

 

"Hey, no problem, champ."

 

Gibson looked at Scully, who was returning from bidding her own family good-bye, and pulled Alex down to whisper in his ear: "I can tell, now. They *are* different."

 

Alex looked over at Scully, then whispered back. "You'll have to tell Dr. Hauptmann and Jeffery all about it when you're safe."

 

"I will."

 

Alex straightened and, with an evil smile, tousled Gibson's hair, even though he knew Gibson hated it.

 

Gibson, who knew Alex knew he didn't like having his hair tousled, sighed and looked at Skinner with long-suffering eyes. "He can be a real pill when he wants to be."

 

Skinner laughed. "Yes, he can! Sometimes, I think he *lives* to annoy people."

 

"Thanks for treating me like an adult, and respecting my opinions, Mr. Skinner."

 

Skinner shook Gibson's proffered hand. "Thanks for making an adult decision. You're a very brave young man, Gibson."

 

"Well, you look to be all packed and ready to go," Scully commented to Jeffery, after a final wave at her mother and her two brothers, and their wives, and kids who were inching their way down the packed driveway in the Charlie Scully family van.

 

Gibson nodded. "Jeffery and Dr. Hauptmann put all of Dr. Hauptmann's and my stuff into his van before they joined us at the picnic," he said, jerking his head towards the back of said van, which was jam-packed with suitcases, bags, boxes, and a few potted plants. 

 

Scully looked around for Doggett and Monica, who had left them to repack his things into his pick-up, but had yet to return. "Mr. Skinner sent him into the house with Monica to wait for Jimmy, who stashed them in the study until you're ready to talk to them," Gibson told her.

 

"That's right," Skinner nodded. "I didn't want Doggett to get too good a look at either Jeffery or Alex, since he's been posted to the Hoover for a couple of years, and might have recognized them." 

 

"Monica has never worked in D.C. before, so he wasn't worried that she might recognize them," Gibson concluded, explaining why Skinner had allowed Monica to wander away from the griller's area.

 

Scully nodded approval. "That's why he's the boss," she said. Gibson nodded. 

 

"Well, looks like it's good-bye again, kiddo," Alex said, as Jeffery opened the side door. He scooped Gibson out of the wagon and onto the sidewalk, and handed over his crutches. "Thanks for all your help. Take care of yourself." He turned and shook hands with Jeffery. "'Troy,' thanks for doing this for me. 

 

"Dr. Hauptmann: Gibson is a very special little boy --as I expect you're beginning to realize. Friendly and only word of warning: treat him accordingly, because if I ever hear that you've hurt him or treated him like some kind of lab rat, you'll wish you'd never been born."

 

"Uh," Dr. Hauptmann stuttered as she caught the deadly serious threat in Alex's eyes. "No worries."

 

The adults all gave Gibson a final hug, wave, or handshake good-bye, then Jeffery loaded Gibson into the back of the van, he and Dr. Hauptmann got into the front seats, and they joined the line of vehicles crawling towards the exit gates.

 

After a long wave good-bye, the *bon voyage* party went into the mansion. Once inside, Skinner and Scully headed into the study to speak with Doggett and Reyes, while the Gunmen and Alex joined Jimmy in the near-by library to watch the meeting via a closed circuit hidden camera the Gunmen had set up earlier. 

 

If Skinner approved of what Doggett had to say, he would introduce him and Monica to Jimmy and the Lone Gunmen. He left Alex's participation --or absence thereof-- up to Alex, since he knew that, in his line of work, the fewer people who could recognize and put a name to Alex the better.

 

"So, you wanted to see us?" Skinner asked as he came into the study to find Monica on the leather upholstered sofa, stockinged legs tucked beneath her, sipping tea from a china service sitting on the coffee-table in front of her, while Doggett paced the thick, green wool carpet in front of the fireplace. 

 

Skinner graciously waited for Dana to settle into her preferred chair before taking his own seat across the coffee-table from Monica. Doggett obligingly settled onto the sofa beside Monica. 

 

Dana leaned forward and served herself a cup of tea, then sat back primly in her chair, too nervous to get comfortable.

 

"Yes, sir. I've been doing my homework," Doggett said, "and it's become painfully clear that you and Deputy Director Kersh are waging some kind of in-house political war over the X-Files Department.

 

"It's also pretty clear that there are forces at work inside the government, but outside the Bureau, that are directing and defining the Bureau's policies, up to and including the kinds of cases we handle and who handles them. I haven't been able to figure out who these people are, if there are one or more groups at work, or how they acquired their authority over the Bureau's upper echelon but, whoever they are, and however many of them there are, *some* of them have been grooming Mulder since, at the very least, his college days, if not his very conception." 

 

Skinner almost snorted. "Grooming Mulder?" he repeated. "To join the F.B.I.?"

 

"Yes, sir. And if you don't mind my saying so, it's pretty obvious when you map out Mulder's career: I mean, it's not every day the State Department *and* a member of Congress exert their pull to grant a prospective cadet a special dispensation for being color-blind and, from what I can see from his subsequent behavior, being psychologically unfit to pass his psych tests.

 

"That same outside pull landed Mulder a plum assignment as a profiler for the Behavioral Science Unit right out of the gate-- superceding men who had been waiting and training for two years to get a posting there. I give Mulder credit for doing superb work as a profiler while he lasted, but when he burned out, three years later, he was transferred into the Inspection Division for the standard minimum eight months necessary to assume a management position without ever requesting such an assignment, and without putting in the years of fieldwork every other agent that moves up the ladder has to endure. Then, once his mandatory time was up, he got reassigned lickety-split to Reggie Purdue's equally prestigious D.C. Violent Crimes Unit, even though he, once again, had not requested it, and was still undergoing psychiatric care to get over the mental problems caused by his profiling job!

 

"It's at this time he underwent a 'hypnotic regression,' which he claims restored his heretofore repressed memory of his sister's abduction by aliens! But instead of that admission getting his ass kicked out on a section eight, he's promoted to Department Head of the X-Files without so much as stepping a foot outside of Washington, D.C.! But the *real* corker is that this Department was created *at his request,* especially for him! That's unprecedented in the history of the Bureau."

 

Skinner drew a breath, perhaps with the intension of defending Mulder, but before he could utter a syllable Doggett held up a hand and forestalled him. "I know all about how J. Edgar himself was supposed to have opened the first X-File in 1947, but, for the most part, it was just a repository for unexplained and unclosable cases, and had no dedicated agents or chain of command attached to it. In fact, the only other agent to ever actually work the files, one Special Agent Arthur Dales, did not receive a pay up-grade, a promotion, or a title bump for his troubles, although he was the one who actually winnowed out the usual cold case files from the mysterious, unnatural cause cases, which was what allowed the X-Files to evolve into a separate entity specializing in paranormal activities, mythological monsters, and UFOs. 

 

"The wonder of it is: although Mulder shamelessly exploited every contact he could to grease his way, and never had to work his way up the ranks with the rest of us peons, he not only seemed unaware that he was exerting undue influence to get his way, he actually complained about his treatment, calling himself 'The F.B.I.'s most *un*wanted'!

 

"Of course, his paranoia might be justified, considering that, as soon as the top brass went to all the trouble to install Mulder in his cozy little X-Files nest, they started trying to shut his Department down!

 

"I'm still trying to work out how they could succeed in shutting down the X-Files almost every other year, only to have somebody --like you, Mr. Skinner; or some Senator with an ulterior agenda and loads of 'pull,' not only reopen them, but reinstate Mulder as its Department Head! 

 

"The one time somebody wised up and put someone other than Mulder in charge, said replacement, one Jeffery Spender, by name, who, at first blush, seemed completely unconnected to Mulder, only lasts a couple months before *he* recommends that Mulder be reinstated as Department head! A recommendation, it is pertinent to note, that comes on the heels of Spender's mother's murder in connection to some alien abduction case, filed the very day Agent Spender mysteriously disappeared, never to be seen again. And not only does his disappearance *not* sound any alarms, not only does *nobody* go looking for him, his jacket lists him as presumed dead, and his X-Files office mate, one Diane Fowley, who, wonder of wonders, happens to have been Mulder's subordinate when he first got the X-Files-- is suddenly reassigned out of the X-files, no explanation, only to wind up dead eight months later after apparently providing key information related to Mulder's apparent kidnapping from a local hospital, during which time he was subjected to an unauthorized brain surgery, two weeks after which, Mulder is right back in the basement, heading up the X-Files Department like nothing happened! 

 

"I have to figure that's because the people who installed Mulder in the Bureau in the first place are dukin' it out behind the scenes with the people that want his ass canned --although why either one of them gives damn one about what Mulder is doing, where, is beyond me. Not that it matters: it is what it is. I don't need to understand *why* he's important to them, I just have to know it's so.

 

"My problem --and it's a *huge* one-- is that there's more at stake here than mere Office Politics, which, to be frank, is what I had pegged it before I got caught up on all the skulduggery. If all I had to do to keep my career on the fast track was to look the other way while a couple of well-connected turds floated up the chain of command alongside the Bureau's best, I'd be more than happy to do just that and spare myself the grief of opposing them. 

 

"But when the Deputy Director himself tries to coerce me into falsifying my reports to suit some unknown agenda under circumstances that suggests a reckless disregard of the Bureau's mandate to protect this nation and her citizens, well, sir, that's where I draw a line in the sand. 

 

"Lord knows, I'd rather live in a world where guys that walk away from hundred foot falls and dissolve into toxic green goo when you blow their brain stems out don't exist, but when I and my men, sober, seasoned, and reliable agents all, each file reports detailing just such occurrences, I expect my superiors to not only believe us, but to investigate our claims thoroughly and alert the President and our sister intelligence agencies to the dangers these beings pose to national security. 

 

"What I do *not* expect is for the operational head of the Bureau to threaten me with disciplinary action if I do not alter my report to suit his ideas of what constitutes reality. I consider such actions a betrayal, not only of me and my fellow agents, but of the people of these United States. Burying our heads in the sand and pretending *they* don't exist --whoever or whatever the Hell 'they' are-- is not doing the world or my fellow agents any favors. But actively suppressing this information is tantamount to treason in my book.

 

"That's why, after due deliberation, I have decided to hitch my wagon to your team. And since I was the one who got Monica involved, I discussed my decision with her, and she agreed to come with me."

 

Skinner raised his eyebrow. "Just like that? You want 'in'? Even though you know 'my side' believes in 'little green men from outer space'? Aren't you afraid that we're delusional? That we'll disgrace the F.B.I., make it a laughingstock in the eyes of our sister intelligence agencies, the President, and the citizens we work for?"

 

"You probably *will* make the F.B.I. a laughingstock," Doggett agreed. "But, if I remember my history correctly, so was Galileo, at first. In fact, you're kinda like Galileo: he recanted his beliefs publically in order to avoid being persecuted by the Inquisition, and you caved in to pressure to delete any mention of UFOs or aliens in your report on Mulder's disappearance."

 

"What makes you so sure I won't continue to cave, even when you need back-up?" Skinner asked.

 

"You might, but your record with the X-Files proves that you'll back me when it counts, and I have to figger that part of your problem is pull, 'cause if 'your side' had the power, *you'd* be the new Deputy Director, not Kersh. That's what makes this a win-win situation: you need all the help you can get; *I* want the Bureau to step up to the plate and do its job before our reputation is compromised; and Monica, well, Monica thinks that we're on the brink of something really vital and bigger than I can imagine, and she wants to help. 

 

"Keeping things hush-hush on account of National Security is one thing, but there is no way 'National Security' should prevent us from keeping the appropriate government agencies informed. If anything, it should make it more urgent for us to pool our intelligence. Maybe, with our help, you'll finally reach a place where you can, at the very least, convince our own agents of the danger we're facing. 

 

"'Lost evidence' seems to be endemic to the X-Files, so it will probably come as no surprise to you that all trace of the green residue I had analyzed in Arizona, from samples, to lab notes, to computer logs, conveniently disappeared from the lab the day after I reported my findings to Kersh. 

 

"Kersh also flat out admitted that he wanted to close down the X-Files, and, as it stands, the Department is already missing its senior agent. With Kersh as its new direct supervisor, the least little infraction against Scully is all he'd need to justify its closure. But if there were *three* agents in the Department, rather than one, closing it down would be a mite harder to manage. And since keeping the X-Files open is the easiest way I can oppose Kersh's agenda in the short run, if you all agree, I'll resign from the special task force as soon as I report for work next Monday, which will put me back into the CID agent pool, where, as my superior, you can expedite my transfer into the X-Files Department," he told Skinner.

 

"What about Monica?" Scully asked.

 

Doggett scowled. "I told Monica that as ASAC of the tactical team, she'd be the first choice to replace me, but she said Agent Crane creeped her out, and she didn't want to stay, no matter how valuable she might be in that position."

 

"Really?" Scully said, almost sorry Gibson wasn't there to root out the woman's dis-ease about her fellow agent. 

 

Monica smiled. "I came up here to help John out. If John changes departments, so do I." 

 

Doggett looked at Monica wryly. "As Task Force Leader with special powers, I was able to transfer Monica to a position in Headquarters. I figger I'll have the juice to transfer her into the X-Files as my last official act --nuthin' beats investigating a Department up close and personal, from the inside, you know?"

 

"But that means you'd both be off the investigation for Mulder?" Scully said. 

 

"Officially, at any rate, yeah," Doggett agreed.

 

Skinner frowned. "Who would that leave looking for Mulder?"

 

"Special Agent Gene Crane will no doubt take charge of the remainder of the task force," Doggett said, and made a face. "Monica has this kinda 'intuition' thing going on," he said. "She's always getting 'feelings' about some damn thing or other. Trouble is: her 'impressions' are too damned vague to point you in any particular direction. Gene Crane could be a wife-beater or a dog kicker or a serial murderer for all Monica can tell. But, by the same token, if she thinks something about the guy is 'off,' she's gonna be right in some way, shape, or form, so you best keep your guard up and your eyes peeled around the guy until you can figure out whatever 'it' is."

 

Monica nodded. "Which is why, if you'll excuse my forwardness, I have to caution you, Agent Scully. Your baby is not...quite right. I don't know what's wrong, but you could lose the child very easily."

 

Scully gasped. "How did you know I was --I didn't --did you?" she looked at Skinner, who looked surprised and shook his head, his actual thoughts centered on how the Gunmen, listening in the other room, would bear the news. 

 

Doggett frowned. "You're pregnant? For how long? Is it Mulder's, and did Mulder know?"

 

Scully stiffened. "Not that it's any of your business--"

 

"--Hel-lo!" Doggett interrupted. "Kersh wants to shut the X-Files down permanently! That's not gonna be very hard to do with Mulder missing and you out on maternity leave havin' his baby!" Doggett roared. "Under the circumstances, I'd actually applaud him for kicking you out on your keister. I've just read the case files, sister, and the X-Files is no place for an expectant mother --especially one with a problem pregnancy."

 

Monica nodded. "John and I just have the baby's well-being in mind," she said. She looked at Doggett, as if she wanted to say more, but didn't feel like blurting it out in his presence.

 

Fortunately, Skinner, having familiarized himself with Doggett's personnel file, knew exactly why John would be particularly sensitive about putting Scully's child in unnecessary danger. "It's a good thing you and Monica are willing to join the Department, then, isn't it?" he smiled. 

 

Doggett shook his head. "We're not competent enough to handle the X-Files on our own, not by a long shot," Doggett disagreed.

 

You'd better be quick studies, then. Scully wants to stay on active duty for as long as she can. And since she's the senior agent in the Department, she'll be promoted to Department Head, in Mulder's absence. That means she'll have a good excuse to stay in the office while you two do the leg work. You may feel discomfited in the beginning, but if you're concerned about the baby, you'll just have to muddle through. At least on the usual monster hunts. There will be cases where Scully will want to go into the field and, as long as she's physically able, she will. On those occasions, I'll expect you two to do your utmost to keep her and her baby safe." 

 

Doggett and Reyes nodded. "We understand," Doggett said for the two of them. "Now, if you would do us the courtesy of filling us in on whatever shadowy government ops unit we're dealing with, and how Mulder's work threatens them and their agenda, I think we deserve that much trust."

 

"Fair enough," Skinner said. "It will go a lot faster if I introduce you to a few people, first, though." Skinner stepped out to fetch the Gunmen --who hovered about Scully like nervous maiden aunts as soon as they entered the room-- and Jimmy. Alex declined to come in at that moment, and Skinner didn't press the issue. 

 

Once he got the Gunmen to settle down, he and Scully and the Gunmen took turns telling the story of the Consortium, Majestik 12, its international counterparts and known factions, open and hidden agendas, the coming alien invasion, the Colonist and Resistance aliens, and all the hybrids, clones, oiliens, chest busting juveniles, mutant bees, and mind altering ship fragments.

 

"Comments? Questions?" Skinner asked, summing up. 

 

Doggett checked his watch. It was just after midnight. "Yeah: where can a guy go to get a bite to eat around here? All that jawing's made me hungry."

 

After a glance of consensus, they adjourned to the kitchen for a snack. 

 

"I'm still not sold on the alien angle," Doggett admitted. "I mean, Monica and I went to see this Eddie Blundht guy, like you suggested, and well, why can't these so called aliens all be fakes like him? I mean, Majestik 12? That's like, Area 51, Groom Lake, Men In Black, Project Blue Book conspiracy crap. There's no proof anything the UFO nuts claim about these things is true. The Majestik group has never been listed in any government precis, in any department, in any capacity, not even Payroll and Disbursements. It's like, fairy tales for paranoid survivalists --no offense, guys," he said to the Gunmen, who murmured understanding of his skepticism. 

 

Alex picked that moment to stroll into the kitchen, bold as brass, scan the impressive selection of brews in the 'beer cellar' next to the industrial sized, stainless steel finished refrigerator, pluck an Alfa 70 pilsner from the glass fronted 'cellar,' and snag the roast beef sandwich that Frohike had just put the finishing touches on. 

 

Doggett watched the newcomer warily, not recognizing him from the SUV in Arizona, his time at the Bureau, the X-Files cases he'd worked on, or today's picnic. Doggett did notice that the Gunmen gave the newcomer a wide berth, and surrendered the sandwich to him without protest, but none of the company objected when he took a seat at the table beside him and, in fact, Skinner looked at him expectantly. 

 

"You want to rebut that?" Skinner asked Alex after the spy downed threes bites of sandwich without comment.

 

"Yeah," Alex growled, his husky voice sending shivers down Skinner's back. He let go of his beer and leaned onto one hip so he could draw out an I.D. holder from his back jeans pocket. He opened the holder with a flick of his wrist, and laid it on the table in front of Doggett. "How would you like to follow me around D.C. and see just how fast these fairy tale credentials can get me inside the hallowed halls of any intelligence agency in town?"

 

Doggett looked down at the card, read the signature, then glanced back up at Alex. "Alex Krycek? From the Cole case? You're a MIB?"

 

Alex smiled. "Am I dressed in black? He dipped his thumb into a dollop of spilled ketchup and carefully pressed it onto the white table top. "Is that my thumb print?"

 

Doggett made a spot comparison of Alex's thumb print. "OK. So you're a card carrying member of Majestik 12. You oughta know who the 12 are, then?" Doggett said.

 

The gunmen quivered with anticipation, as excited as a swarm of drones flying after a queen bee about this newest disclosure about Alex's actual place in the conspiracy heavens.

 

Alex smiled, sucked his thumb clean, then leaned over to snatch back his I.D. "So happens I *do* know, and if *you* knew, you wouldn't need the people in this room to 'sell you' on the existence of aliens," he smirked. "Well, I have things to steal and people to kill; a MIB's work is never done," he said snapping a saucy wink at the Gunmen. "Thanks for everything, Jimmy, it was...fun. Tell your mother 'thank you' and 'good-bye' for me." He grabbed his sandwich in his real hand and his beer in the fake one and sauntered out of the room.

 

Doggett waited for the door to close before he looked at the others. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't Alex Krycek the fella Mulder blamed for poisoning his apartment complex's water with hallucinogens; abducting Scully; making bombs for an ultra right wing militia group; stealing evidence; selling state secrets to foreign nationals; and murdering his father, Scully's sister, a tram operator, and former F.B.I. agent and self-proclaimed UFO abductee Duane Barry --*and* you, sir-- to name but a few of his evil deeds and offenses against mankind?"

 

Skinner nodded. "The very same."

 

"So, you're what, allies with Alex 'rat bastard' Krycek? Since when?"

 

"Hmm, April of last year," Skinner said. 

 

"Why the sudden turn-around? From what I gathered from the files, Mulder's halfway convinced Krycek's the incarnation of Satan, himself," Doggett said almost lightly. 

 

Scully grimaced. "That may not be far off the mark," she said sourly. "While he can be pleasant and charming, make no mistake: Alex Krycek would kill you in a nanosecond if it was in his best interests, and he's not above coercing someone into doing his dirty work for him," she added, with a jaundiced look at Skinner. "Mulder has proof positive he's worked for the U.S., Russian, and British governments, as well as that anarchistic right wing militia group, and that he sold Majestik 12 secrets to the French, Tunisians, and Chinese. He has a device that controls nanocytes in A.D. Skinner's bloodstream which he's used to torture, clinically kill, and then revive him in order to control the AD's actions. He's a dangerous man and he's not to be trusted."

 

"He *is* a dangerous man, probably the most dangerous man any of us will ever meet," Skinner agreed. "And he *did* start out as a starry eyed blue flamer who allowed himself to be recruited by the Majestik group in order to advance his career, but, since his brief possession by an oilien, he has dedicated himself to saving the Earth from the oilien Colonists at any cost. He's done more to save this planet than anyone else on it, including Mulder, and one of the 'casualties' in that pursuit was any trace of nationalism he ever possessed. He's willing to do any job, commit any crime, cross any line, court any government, and defy any morality to accomplish his goal. He will and has lied, stolen, cheated, murdered, tortured, blackmailed, and coerced any number of people, including me, Mulder, and Scully to achieve his agenda. He's also our mole in the Consortium's Inner Circle, without whom we'd have half as much information on the conspirators as we presently do, and he is also our only contact to the Resistence aliens, as well as possessor of the codes necessary to contact the Colonist aliens, and he's the sole reason the U.S. has a viable vaccine against the oiliens, a vaccine which saved Scully's life *and* Mulder's, which makes him our most valuable resource, bar none," Skinner finished with a stern glance in Scully's direction.

 

Doggett chewed his lip. Clearly, the house was divided on whether Krycek could be trusted or not. He glanced at Monica, who gave him a thumb's up. He nodded. Monica was not 'creeped out' by Alex Krycek. So, he was a ruthless man, but he gave off good vibes. Frankly, between that and the head's up on how the man operated, it was enough of an endorsement for Doggett. "All righty, then," he said, checking his watch. "I don't know about you, but it's late, and I'm tired. It's a long drive back to Falls Church. We can get a game plan together later. Right now, I need to hit the road. Come on, Monica."

 

"We have plenty of guest rooms, if you'd rather stay till morning?" Jimmy offered.

 

"Thanks, but no thanks," Doggett declined. "I need to sleep in my own bed tonight."

 

"We'll stay!" Frohike exclaimed. It had been a hard month for the Gunmen, and they were ready for a day off.

 

"I promised my mother I'd sleep at her place, tonight," Scully said, begging off.

 

"I prefer to sleep in my own bed, as well," Skinner said. "Thanks, all the same."

 

Jimmy saw his departing guests out to their cars, then returned to the kitchen to escort the Gunmen upstairs to their beds.

 

#

 

Doggett, Skinner, and Scully made a mini-convoy heading towards D.C. Scully, the last in line, was the first to peel off, since her mother lived in Baltimore. Skinner departed once they crossed the Potomac, and Doggett drove first to Monica's motel, then on to his own house alone.

 

Skinner drove home with a sense of anticipation. Alex had been staying with Jimmy all month, so the fact that he had gone out of his way to tell Skinner that he was leaving was a 'come-on' that kept Skinner's penis alert and flagging the entire drive. Now, if only he was right. 

 

He went up to his condo, opened the door and looked around. Everything seemed to be exactly as he'd left it. There was no indication he had a guest. Undeterred, Skinner went upstairs to his bedroom and lightly swung the door open. Sure enough, Alex was in his bed, lightly dozing, his face tipped towards the opened drapes of the bedroom's window as if basking in the moonlight that streamed through the pane. 

 

Skinner eased inside, closed the door, and turned on the light. Alex woke up immediately and stretched his limbs out in front of him like a cat "Hm.... Missed you."

 

"Sleeping without you, knowing you were so near, was sheer torture," Skinner admitted as he started across the room, shedding clothing along the way. 

 

Alex purred at him. "Come to bed, lover."

 

Skinner smiled. It was almost three a.m., but it was worth the long drive to be here with Alex at long last. He doffed the last of his clothes, put his gun into and locked his end-table drawer, and went into the bathroom to make his final preparations for bed. He brushed his teeth, used the toilet, and took a drink of water. Then he walked back to his lover, who had pulled the sheets back in readiness.

 

Skinner lay down and flipped the covers over him, rolling to the center of the bed to press his lips against Alex's and swirl his tongue into his mouth in greeting. Alex teased him with his tongue, caressing Skinner's tongue, then tickling his cheeks and pallette. 

 

Skinner grabbed Alex around the waist and rolled him onto his chest, grinding their groins together.

 

"Mmm..." Alex pulled back, and sat up, straddling Walter's groin. "Wanna watch me make a fire with two sticks?" He grinned and grabbed their two penises, tugging and stroking them together. 

 

Skinner grabbed Alex's butt cheeks and sent his two middle fingers in search of Alex's hole. One found, and breached it. It was warm and well lubed. "Oh, shit!" The two fingers took turns plunging into Alex, then popped inside together and pulled in opposite directions, side to side, up and down, stretching and teasing Alex's hole. He finally shifted his grip in order to lift Alex up and move Alex's ass over his penis. 

 

"Whoa!" Alex squawked as he was lifted airward, which forcibly tore Walter's penis from his hand. He pouted as his hand closed on his remaining plaything --namely his own penis-- and he shook it at Walter's face like an aspergillum. 

 

"Get me ready," Skinner demanded. 

 

Alex smirked, but obligingly reached out a leg to grab a condom from the shelf at the head of the bed with his toes. He brought the packet to his mouth and bit the corner open, pulling his leg away to tear the slender strip off the packet. His hand plucked the rubbery disc out of its foil pocket, and, as his toes let the empty packet fall to the floor, he bent to roll the condom over Skinner's penis. That done, he grabbed the shaft, holding it steady while Skinner lowered him onto his entire twelve inch erection. 

 

Alex's butt settled onto Skinner's groin, Skinner's nuts making a pleasant tickler for his crack. Skinner moaned. Alex settled his legs under him, and started to bob up and down, like an equestrian riding English-style.

 

Walter began to yell and buck as if he was being tortured, but Alex wouldn't still. This position provided maximum penetration, and Walter's cock was breaching Alex's inner sphincter with every bob, teasing Walter's cock head immercifully as it poked his bowels. 

 

Alex felt as if he had saddled a bucking bronco, but he didn't relent, he kept ramming his butt up and down as if Walter's cum would wash his soul snowy white. Walter roared and gripped Alex's thighs as he bucked himself dry. 

 

"Oh, Christ!" Walter sighed as he relaxed. He felt like a balloon with a slow leak, deflating between Alex's legs. As Walter's jaw dropped open slackly, Alex smirked and began to pump his penis with his fist. As he yelled through his orgasm, he aimed his spurting spunk at Walter's mouth. Too low. Too high. Bull's eye! Alex laughed wickedly as Walter sputtered and snorted as if he'd swallowed a fly. The final gob splashed the end of Skinner's nose as he raised his sex stupored head to look at his attacker.

 

With a growl, Skinner bucked once more, this time to dislodge his assailant. Alex spilled onto the bed. Walter took the opportunity to strip his penis of its latex skin. He tossed the used condom into the trash, then rolled sideways to capture his lover with a beefy arm and snuggle him close.

 

"Welcome home, Val," he rumbled. He planted a kiss on Alex's lips, then allowed himself to slip into sleep.

 

Alex licked Walter's face clean, then settled into Walter's embrace and drifted to sleep after him.

 

#


	15. Chapter 15

#

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

#

"Making the decision to have a child --it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." -- Elizabeth Stone

#

Walter Skinner's condo, Vista Towers, Crystal City district, Arlington, Virginia

Thursday, July 19th, 11:37 p.m.

#

 

With the demise of Spender Sr., Alex was free to pursue his own agenda without the bother of covering his own tracks. He decided to forego renting his own place in favor of gracing Skinner's condo with his continued presence, and, for the next two weeks, he had dinner on the table waiting for Walter's return. 

 

When Walter unlocked the front door and sighed inside July 19th, neither Alex, nor dinner, were present. Walter felt a pang in his heart. He had known his time with Alex was limited, but he hadn't thought it would be *this* brief. He had time to toss his keys into the dish on the table beside the door and pour himself a welcome home scotch before an unexpected knock on the door drowned his fatigue with a rush of adrenalin. 

 

Frowning, Walter checked the peep hole. It was Alex. Walter groped for his keys and opened the door. 

 

Alex spotted the scotch in Walter's fist. He wrested it out of Walter's grip, downed it in two gulps, handed the empty glass back to Walter, and strode into the foyer like Sherman marching across Atlanta. "We've gotta talk," he said, bluntly. He headed into the living room, flopped into a cushioned chair, felt too comfortable, jumped up, headed into the kitchen and planted his rump on one of the bare wood, ladder-backed chairs surrounding the dining table, plopped his elbows on the tabletop, and buried his head in his arms. 

 

Walter, who had declined to follow Alex immediately in order to refresh his drink, spared himself a trip to the livingroom, and strolled into the kitchen, drink to his lips. After a fortifying nip, he sat opposite his lover and made the necessary prompt. "What's up?"

 

"You're not going to like it," Alex said, by way of preamble. He rubbed his scalp, making his hair flare up and rake down by turns, like a cockatoo raising and lowering its crest feathers. He sighed. "The Resistence contacted me today--"

 

"--is Mulder all right?" Walter interrupted.

 

"...I guess. They didn't say and I didn't ask."

 

"OK. Then, what's the matter?"

 

Alex wiped at his mouth, then drew his fingers down around his chin, as if he were stroking a beard. "It's Scully. Her baby. It's alien."

 

Walter stared at Alex, as if waiting for the punch line. He snorted. Then he laughed. "Good one, Val!"

 

"I'm serious, Bear!"

 

"I've seen the ultrasounds. The baby is fine," Walter reassured his lover. Scully had shown them all the printout picture. Granted, it looked like someone had made a scratch painting of a peanut with vestigial limbs in a dimly lit cave, but Scully had been ecstatic. 

 

"Yeah, and *I've* seen the *real* ultrasounds in the doctor's private lab. He's Consortium, Walt. Working on the hybrid project. Scully is carrying a hybrid. That's the bad news. The good news is: the Resistance made a real human baby from Scully's oocytes and Mulder's sperm. They have a replacement baby ready for insertion. Only, I don't want Scully to have so much as an inkling as to what we're going to do. And, once we do it, we're going to have to make sure she doesn't go back to Dr. Parenti. If they find out that the alien hybrid is gone, he'll shit bricks. On the other hand, if she goes to another board certified OB-GYN and they *don't* find a hybrid, Dr. Parenti's sure to find out --and he'll shit bricks. 

 

"Now, if this was just some monumental coincidence, and Dr. Parenti chose to put Scully into the hybrid program on his own merits, well, records can disappear, be altered, the doctor can be dealt with, and life goes on, no one the wiser. But if someone higher up the Consortium food chain authorized the implantation...and they discover that something...untoward has happened to their hybrid, who knows what will happen. The best we can do is keep the lid on it --drum tight-- and find her some other doctor to handle the Pregnancy --one we can trust to keep his mouth shut on pain of death, who won't keep official records. 

 

"That will keep the baby and Scully safe --at least until the birth. But, either way, I'm going to have to have to deal with the good doctor --rather severely." He looked at Walter. "As in torture and kill, Walter. For Scully's sake --and the baby, of course. Please say you understand?"

 

Walter shook his head. "How could the Resistance aliens know Scully has an alien baby in her?"

 

"They found out when she was in Oregon. Gibson confirmed it, July 4th."

 

Walter stiffened. "And you didn't tell me?"

 

"What good would it have done you to know something like that? You'd have been beside yourself with worry. You might have done something to clue Scully in, and then all Hell would have broken loose. At least, now, you know we can do something about it. In fact, I need you to lure Scully someplace where we can perform the switch without her knowledge."

 

"Why can't we just tell her the truth?"

 

"Are you kidding? If Scully finds out that the precious little bundle she's carrying is a hybrid-- Walter-- she's Catholic! You can't expect her to act rationally about having an abortion, she'll lose what ever cool she has and go on a rampage --we can't let her run amok! Geez! One Mulder in

the mix is more than enough, don't you think?" 

 

"So, I have to betray her for her own good?"

 

Alex looked stung. "Yeah. OK, it might *seem* like you're betraying her, but you're not. You're sparing her a lot of pain and anger and frustration and horror and emotional and spiritual angst. It's for the best, all the way around. And it's not like *I* could do it! She trusts you. We'll need that 'edge' if we're going to be able to pull this off without raising her suspicions. It would absolutely kill her to know she was used to house one of those things, Vlad. You know it would. Damnit! How would you feel if they'd done it to you, after decades of wanting a family of your own?"

 

Walter sighed. "Yeah. You're right; it would kill me. So, you want me to lure her to some Resistance run clinic?" Walter asked.

 

"No. All their facilities are hush-hush. We need to find a clinic amenable to renting their facilities out for a few hours.... I could pretend to be a film producer. You could take Scully to lunch or dinner some place near-by, then slip her a mickey. Then we take her to the clinic, the aliens come in, make the switch, we take her back to the restaurant, and let her wake up. Hmm...maybe you could take her to a movie. Theaters are dark. Less chance of witnesses getting suspicious. Plus, she might fall asleep during a movie. Or a concert. People fall asleep during operas all the time. And, if she doesn't, we can spike her intermission wine spritzer."

 

Walter laughed. "It doesn't sound like you've thought this out too well."

 

Alex smiled. "This is me flying by the seat of my pants, OK? And if my ideas stink on ice, why don't *you* run a few up the flag pole, huh?"

 

Walter nodded. Fair was fair. "First off, do you know for an absolute fact that the aliens need a clinic?"

 

"Yeah. In fact, they gave me a list of equipment they'll need in order to make the switch." He pulled out the paper with the complete list from his pocket and started reading it. "An operating room with a table, and all the lights and monitors, equipment stands, trays, standard IVs, and etc.; and a pulse laser, ruby, not argon or gas, like the kinds sed to remove tatoos, do face lifts, or eye surgery; and these drugs." He handed the list to Walter, who looked it over. 

 

"Hm. OK. I have a friend: the guy who pulled my ass out of the body bag the corpsmen tucked me into. He's a doctor here in D.C., now. Runs a little clinic on Quincy St., just off of Kansas Avenue. Name's Joe Fischer. I'll give him a call, find out if he has the equipment we need."

 

"Does your friend do OB-GYN work?" Alex asked.

 

"I guess he could in a pinch, he's a General Practitioner," Walter replied.

 

"OK. Maybe you could ask her to see him, maybe suggest he take over for Parenti, rather than the guy who replaces Parenti at Parenti's clinic, since he's a guy you trust."

 

"I'll need a reason to make the suggestion."

 

"Leave it to me. I'll seed the clinic's books with so many ethical violations they'll be up to their ears in lawyers through New Year's."

 

Walter smiled. "That might work. If it doesn't, I'll suggest that the evidence was planted in order for the Consortium to remove Parenti in order to slip in one of their own doctor's, to allow them access to her unborn child. If *that* doesn't kick start some rampant paranoia, I don't know what will. That way, I can honestly escort her out to meet Joe and inspect his facility for suitability."

 

Alex purred. "I love it when you're being devious.... As long as you're doing it to somebody other than me, that is," he clarified. "With all of Scully's experience on the X-files, your fine display of concern should have her guts twisted into knots in no time," he grinned, and his teeth gleamed shark white. "I guess that means the sooner I get to work on Parenti, the better."

 

"I'd rather you humored me and let me see the evidence for myself, first," Walter said. 

 

Alex pouted. "You don't trust me."

 

"I *do* trust *you.* It's *them* I'm not so sure about."

 

Alex nodded. "Call Gibson, then. He'll tell you."

 

"What exactly would he tell me? How could he know it was an alien?"

 

"Because of the buzz. In his head. You remember."

 

"Yeah, I do. Which is why I'm wondering why he couldn't tell until July 4th."

 

"Ah. I expect it has to do with fetal development. Gibson is bothered by the way their brains operate. The fetus didn't have a functioning brain until July."

 

Walter nodded. "I see. That even makes sense." He smiled. "I still want to see the evidence at the clinic for myself, though."

 

"Just promise me you'll be extra careful. She'll probably snoop into the investigation, and I don't want her finding even a hint of your involvement --or mine, either," Alex said solemnly.

 

"I won't leave so much as a flake of skin, even if I have to wear a haz-mat suit to do it," Walter promised. He finished his scotch and set the glass in the sink. "Come on to bed. We can't do anything more tonight. I'll call Joe in the morning and find out if he has the proper equipment. No sense in starting anything until we know we can use his place."

 

"Of course we can use it --if he doesn't have the equipment we can buy it for him, no problem. That's what seed money is for, Vlad," Alex said as he docilely followed Walter up the stairs. 

 

They were too emotionally drained to do anything but cuddle, but Alex enjoyed having a warm body beside him. It was like being a kid again, back when the world was safe, sharing a bed with Viktor, or holding on to memories of a family long gone while he was in bed with Mikey at the Academy. He always slept better when someone was in bed with him. Funny how he'd never grown out of it, despite everything that had happened to him since then. It felt good. Secure. Like he belonged somewhere, to someone.

 

Walter sighed and fell asleep without trouble. After seventeen years of marriage he missed having a warm body next to him, somebody to wake up next to. Even with his eyes closed, just feeling the heat radiating off his bed partner, hearing his breathing, smelling his scent, put him in a good mood. They may have been too tired to indulge in a little sex along with the companionship but, in the end, having a living body fill up the empty side of the bed was enough. Just a presence to remind him he was not alone in the world, but loved and cherished and needed. 

 

# 

 

When Walter got to work the next morning he had Kim clear his schedule. Then he called Joe and asked him out to lunch. They went to Sperry's and caught up with each other's lives since the last time they'd talked. Joe was a big, buff ex-Marine, very much in Walter's mold, physically, even down to the crown of receding hair. Joe was the color of a mildly roasted, black coffee, and he had a raucous laugh. 

 

Walter followed Joe to his clinic after lunch for a quick tour. He asked about the equipment Joe had at the clinic. Joe was effusive, proud of the way he was able to provide some state-of-the-art equipment and procedures to his patients, who were mostly not-poor-enough blacks who didn't qualify for Medicaid, but weren't rich enough to afford private medical insurance. Joe's clinic provided everything the average family needed to treat the most prevalent ills and injuries--but he didn't have a surgical laser. 

 

"Well, I know your clientele are mostly black," Walter began, "and most of the darker skinned blacks don't go in for tattoos, because they don't show well. So I suppose investing in a surgical laser would be a mis-use of funds, but, all the same, I've read that a young person who has their gang tattoos removed via laser can get a better shot at a good career. I don't know if it's the removal so much as the determination to wipe the reminders off, but it does seem to be effective in changing a person's feeling of self-worth," Walter told Joe. "So, the benefits are there, if marginal, enough so that having a surgical laser which could be used for other procedures, as well, would be a good thing to have, if the price was right, considering...right?" 

 

"Why do I get the feeling that you're about to make me an offer you don't want me to refuse?" Joe asked, arching a brow.

 

Walter smiled. "Because you are a very perceptive fellow. You wouldn't refuse a free laser, would you?"

 

"...No."

 

"Great." Walter whipped out his cell phone and called Jimmy Bond, asking how soon he could get a surgical laser to the clinic. He had, of course, already briefed Jimmy about the need for a laser, so Jimmy assured Walter that, since it was for their 'project' the money was in hand, and, since he had contacts in the medical machine industry, he could have the laser delivered the next day. 

 

Joe was flabbergasted. He was also suspicious. "OK, Skinman, come clean. Why would you choose now, of all times, to get in touch and offer me a surgical laser out of the blue?"

 

"I have a friend, a lady friend, who is in desperate need of a discreet OB-GYN," Walter confessed. "She's been under the care of a fertility doctor, and she's been artificially inseminated, but she seems to be having some difficulty, health-wise. Unfortunately, due to security reasons, she is not longer able to continue care with her former physician, so I suggested you. I figured you were a good enough doctor to handle the problem pregnancy, and a good enough friend that you'd keep her records off the books. It has to be off the usual doctor radar, because the mother is in danger from unsavory elements who have eyes and ears in the board certified OB-GYN community."

 

Joe nodded his understanding. "Ah-ha. Hell, Walt, I didn't need a bribe to convince me to help out a friend of a friend. A simple: 'she's in trouble with a bad element' would have sufficed." 

 

Walter shrugged. "I figured you'd say as much, but trust me on this, Joe: these are real bad ass guys. If that means I need to make a little donation in order to square this with 

my conscience, well, you know what they say about gift horses. Besides, if there's any fallout to the clinic --or, heaven forbid, your family, because of this...'situation,' a laser may be too little compensation for your trouble, not too much."

 

"Say no more. I'm your man."

 

Walter patted Joe on the shoulder. "Thanks, Joe. I'll call you when I'm ready to bring her in."

 

Walter left Joe, stopped off at an electronics store, bought a Wi-Fi laptop PC, then went back to work and had Kim explain how to use it. She walked him through installing a security system that would allow him to know when his PC was being tapped, and the location of the tapper; then making, sending, and reading a secure e-mail. They even sent a sample e-mail to his machine, which they sent to her work computer so he could see how the process worked from both ends and, when he felt comfortable, he thanked her, dismissed her, and e-mailed Gibson to confirm that the boy had indeed sensed an alien in Scully's womb July fourth. 

 

He actually got a prompt reply, and a query: 'are you going to make the switch now?' 

 

Walter was surprised. Alex had confided his plans to Gibson, but not to him? Well, in all fairness, Gibson could have read it from Alex's mind with or without Alex's consent, and since Alex knew Gibson had that capability, he might have figured he had nothing to lose by confiding in the boy from the get go.

 

Alex must have convinced Gibson not to spill the beans, though, or they would have all heard about the hybrid baby at the Independence Day party. And if Gibson, who could read anybody's mind as easily as he had Alex's, had agreed that it was best to conceal what he knew from everybody at the party that night, well, Walter had to think it was for the best, too. 

 

So, while he felt slighted that Alex hadn't told *him* when he'd told Gibson, he had to admit to himself that Alex was right not to have done so: because he would have worried about it, and he couldn't have been trusted to withhold that kind of information from Scully. Better that Alex told him after he'd figured out how to handle the problem. Just knowing a solution was at hand --and that he could participate-- eased the anxiety, and the need to blab all to Scully.

 

Walter e-mailed Gibson back and admitted that they were setting the switch up, and he'd let Gibson know how it all turned out.

 

Then Walter phoned Alex and gave him the OK to grab Dr. Parenti. He knew when he did, that he was signing the man's death warrant but, unlike Mulder, Skinner did not believe victimless wars were feasible, nor did he consider Parenti a civilian casualty. Parenti was one of the enemy and he needed to be disposed of for the well being of one of Walter's friends and allies. The fact that he could be eliminated in such a way as to further their cause was just an added bonus. 

 

Parenti would be the first casualty of this secret war that Walter was directly responsible for. The first, but, Walter was pretty sure, not the last. It was because of that surety, and the fact that he also knew he would not be able to be present every time he sent Alex off to do the dirty work, that he had to go out of his way to make sure he was there *this* time, so he could determine for himself, without a doubt, that the man was, in fact, guilty as charged. He had to know that when Alex said: "this man must die" that it was right and proper, otherwise, as a duly sworn officer of

the law, he couldn't live with himself. This first time he had to build up enough trust in Alex and their Cause to carry him through all the other times he was going to put blood on his hands. 

 

First things first, though. Alex scheduled his 'office visit' for the week-end, when Walter could be there to check out the facility himself. He didn't quibble. He knew Walter had to do it in order to ease his conscience. Maybe even to shoulder some of the responsibility, in a weird way. The gesture was so Walter, it made Alex smile. 

 

Once in the building, Alex gave Walter the grand tour. Having ferreted out the secret laboratory during his previous visit, he was able to let Walter tour the 'museum' of specimen jars; hundreds of aborted and preserved fetus's that weren't quite right in very particularly alien ways. Then he let Walter look at the secret files. At Scully's fake chart and her real chart. At the fake sonagram, and Scully's real sonagrams. The last was particularly affecting, the big almond eyes of the hybrid child a distinct black stain on the film.

 

After viewing the all the evidence, Walter felt ill, righteous, but ill. There was no denying Parenti was guilty. He helped Alex destroy Scully's films, move her specimens to the 'control' group, and alter Scully's physical and computerized charts, so that anyone coming into the office to pick up the pieces of the project after Parenti's death would never suspect that Scully had ever been a part of the hybrid project. Then they got to work messing up the labels and records of fifteen other patients, chosen at random --none of whom belonged to the hybrid project. They made it look as if the clinic had mixed the wrong eggs with the wrong sperm, implanted the wrong embryos in the wrong women, mis-labeled a few vials of eggs and sperm, and deliberately put in erasure marks and liquid paper 'corrections' in their charts as if the mistakes had been discovered and deliberately covered-up. 

 

That made Walter feel good, not only because he was saving Scully from a dastardly physician and his nefarious plans, even though she would --hopefully-- never know she'd needed rescuing, but because he now felt, with unshakable certainty, that he could trust Alex's judgement in the future, no matter what anybody else might say against the rogue agent.

 

Of course, he also felt bad because he was only rescuing Scully, when many more women needed to be helped, and he couldn't take the chance of helping them all. There was just no way he could make all of the fertility clinic's clandestine project stock disappear, die, or get replaced without endangering Dana. The fact that he could not think of any way of handling the situation other than by standing idly by while dozens of women had their hopes for the perfect child dashed, or worse, died, did little to absolve his guilt. Aiding and abetting in the commission of a burglary, data tampering, invasion of private medical records, and destruction of private property was a heinous enough list of crimes for a member of the law enforcement community, but his soul urged him to do more, even while his head told him there was nothing else he could do. Or at least, nothing Alex would let him do. So he consoled himself with thoughts of Coventry and made his peace with the unavoidable reality of 'civilian casualties.'

 

Once the relatively simple cover-up of Scully's participation in the project had been completed, Alex allowed Walter to drive him to Parenti's house, since it was also in Arlington, then insisted that Walter go home. There was no reason for Walter to stick around for the actual kidnapping and torture. Knowing that Alex was going to commit the crime was enough abetment to garner a charge of conspiracy to murder in the first degree if the truth was ever disclosed. If Walter were actually present, his position as a law enforcement officer would complicate the situation, legally as well as physically, not to mention morally. Too many things could go wrong. No reason to tempt fate, Alex insisted.

 

Walter didn't argue, he just made it very clear that, once the deed was done, Alex would get his butt back to Walter's condo, post haste. Walter knew Alex needed a clear head in order to pull the deed off without a hitch, and he did not want Alex to take unnecessary chances trying to protect his ass when Alex should be paying attention to business. 

 

So Walter went home and prepared to reward Alex when he came home. He stopped by Alex's favorite take out Thai restaurant on his way home and bought all his favorite dishes, picked out Alex's favorite bubble bath and massage oil, and settled into his reading chair with a book on sensual massage, so he would be well prepared to thank Alex for doing a hard, but no longer thankless, job.

 

#

 

Alex had Walter drop him off half a block from Dr. Parenti's house. Since it was dark, no one should be able to ID Walter later, or even think to, this far from the actual esidence, no matter what else they were witness to, and it would spare him the trouble of having to steal a 'throw-away' car that would be left at the scene. Alex preferred to leave as few threads connecting him to a crime scene as possible.

 

He walked to the side of the house and began a circuit of the property, found the electrical box and made quick work of the alarm system, then opened the back door with a picklock, and slipped quietly inside. It was not quite eleven thirty, late enough that Parenti had shut off all the rest of the lights in the house but the one in the living room beside his lounge chair, which he was currently occupying while he watched the remainder of the eleven o'clock news. 

 

Alex crept over to the stairs, peered into the living room to decide on a course of action, and to make sure his presence was as yet undetected. He watched Parenti a moment, decided there was no way he could sneak into the living room unseen, and hid under the stairs. He didn't have long to wait before Parenti shut off the TV and headed upstairs.

 

Alex let Parenti take the first three steps up, then, carefully gripping a pen-shaped hypo containing a fast acting knock-out drug in his artificial hand, he popped out from cover, jabbed Parenti in the near ankle with one hand, while he grabbed the doctor's ankle and anchored him down with the other. The sudden pain made the doctor yelp, and, combined with the grip on his ankle, threw him off balance. He fell, barking his shins on the risers. 

 

Alex shoved the knock-out dart into his pocket, then jumped the baluster to clamp Parenti's mouth shut till the drug took effect. Then he drug the doctor to the attached garage, popped the trunk lid, loaded him in, and, in the process of arranging the body in a semi-comfortable position, found a roll of hose tape in the emergency repair kit, which he used to bind the doctor's hands and feet. 

 

Alex closed the trunk, then went back inside and took a tour of the house. He took a box of trash bags from the kitchen, then went upstairs, found a set of luggage, took the largest suitcase and stuffed it with a couple changes of clothing. Then he got out one of the trash bags and filled it with the doctor's watch, PDA, cell phone, wallet, and jewelry. The car keys he pocketed. Then he looked for a safe. He didn't find one in the bedroom, so he went to the study, where he found the safe behind a picture on the wall. He took a moment to crack it, emptied its contents into the trash bag, relocked the safe, then went to the desk and wrapped the doctor's CPU, monitor, keyboard, and mouse with the doctor's clothing, then packed them securely into the suitcase. Any hard copy flies, back-up floppies, or CD-ROMs he found that seemed the least bit pertinent went into the trash bag. 

 

When he was satisfied he had gotten all the valuable data he could expect to find, he hauled the suitcase and trash bag down to the car, hoisted them into the back seat, and drove to an abandoned house in a crappy neighborhood he had scouted out weeks ago, in preparation for this day. The whole neighborhood was falling apart, most of the block had been condemned for years, but there was still an active underground electrical line that was servicing the adjoining neighborhood which he could --and did-- tap into, sight unseen, through a hole in the basement wall. Any actual neighbors who might overhear the good doctor's screams, should that be necessary, were either homeless --and thus phone-less-- or too apathetic to do anything about it, and since he was in a windowless basement, there would be no suspicious, tell-tale lights for anyone to report to the police, either.

 

Alex was not fond of hurting people, so he left the doctor in the car trunk while he perused the files he had stolen. He was perfectly willing to kill the good doctor out-right and forego the torture if he could find what he was looking for in the files. Happily, for Alex, Dr. Parenti was a meticulous file keeper. Once Alex was positive he could piece together all the information on the doctor's hybridization process, including all the names of all the people in the Consortium who had authorized and were paying for Parenti's work, and, in particular, the one who had put Scully on the hybrid carriers list, (Smoky himself, Alex was not surprised to learn), he folded up his energy tapping tents. The sooner he was gone the better, at this point, for the electric company might notice his unauthorized use of power and send someone to investigate. Still, there was time to be thorough. 

 

Alex dug out the box of trash bags, and started sorting through Parenti's possessions. He stuffed all the project info, including the computer's CPU, but not the rest of the computer, which was now superfluous, into one bag, tossed the junk into a second bag, and refilled the suitcase with the sellable, pawnable booty. This included Parenti's passport, jewelry, stock certificates, bearer bonds, deeds, and money. Then he loaded the bags into the car, the good stuff in the front seat, the junk in back.

 

One thing he had learned the hard way: when you were your own boss in a clandestine labor market, you took your pay days where you could find them. If that meant selling credit cards, cell phones, and passports on the black market, so be it. It wasn't like this particular case of identity theft would ever cause the real doctor Parenti any problems.

 

Once he had all of Parenti's belongings sorted out as to what was salvageable and what wasn't, Alex popped open the trunk lid, hauled the unfortunately conscious doctor far enough out of the trunk to not make a mess, and shot Parenti in the back of the head, retrieved the shell casing and the slug, and bagged them and the head with another trash bag, which he duct taped to the body so there would be no blood traces in the trunk. He then reloaded the body into the trunk, wiped the outside of the car down, got into the car, and started on his rounds. 

 

Most important things first: he drove to the Lone Gunmen's place and dropped off the project files. Secondly, he drove to the industrial incinerator Skinner himself had used to destroy anatomical evidence, (not that Alex knew that at the time), and dumped the body and junk sack in. Thirdly, he stowed the pawnable booty suitcase in his storage locker. He'd come back and make the rounds of fences when he had more time. Fourthly, he dropped the car off at a local chop shop for a thousand cash, which he would add to his depleted emergency fund when he could. Finally, he walked to the nearest metro line and took it to the Crystal City station, from whence he walked to Walter's condo, which was about a quarter mile away. 

 

Alex was not too surprised when Walter met him at the door within a minute of his knock, despite its being nearly dawn. Neither did he bother pointing out that it was closer to breakfast than dinner when Walter took him into the kitchen and set out a feast of nuked take out cartons before him.

 

Alex knew Walter was dying to ask for a detailed sit-rep, but he leisurely ate his fill, drank a few scotches, and let Walter strip him as he silently made his way up to the master bath, where a steaming hot bubble bath awaited them, (Walter having gone upstairs to draw it while Alex had been sipping his highball).

 

Alex eased himself into the hot water, let Walter scoot in behind him, and, happily sculpted the foam in front of him into lumpy rabbit heads and sleeping camels as he allowed the debriefing to commence.

 

"Parenti has disappeared," Alex confided. "He wasn't married, so there were no civilian casualties. I just made it look as if the man had gotten up, packed all his valuables, left the house, and dropped off the face of the earth. He was kind enough to keep detailed records at home, so it wasn't necessary to torture him. Spender was the one who ordered him to include Scully in the Hybrid breeding program."

 

"Son of a bitch," was Walter's one and only comment about the affair. 

 

All they could do now was let time take its course. Parenti's nurses would try to contact the Doctor when he didn't show up for work, and the new guy the Consortium sent in to replace Parenti would have his hands full explaining the irregularities in Parenti's records when the authorities, alerted by an 'anonymous tipster,' started an investigation of the clinic.

 

It was a far better way of handling the problem than leaving the clinic in a shambles with the doctor's dead body on the premises amid the ruins. Mystery beat an open homicide any day. Especially when one was dealing with the Consortium, which had a tendency of cleaning up its loose ends by killing them en masse.

 

"I think you're clean enough," Walter said once the suds had failed and Alex had nothing more to add to his report. "Why don't you go to bed."

 

Alex pouted. "Alone?"

 

"Sorry, babe. I had plans, but they'll have to keep. It's almost time for me to go to work." Walter got out of the tub and they helped each other dry off, then Walter started his morning routine of shaving and calisthenics. Alex put off going to bed to watch. 

 

Walter stared back. "Alex, do you have plans for the immediate future?"

 

"How immediate?"

 

"Down, boy! Getting ready for work, remember? I just...well, I've missed having you around. If you don't have any place else you need to be, how about you stay here?"

 

Alex's eyebrows rose. "Aren't you afraid someone will find out?"

 

"No," Walter said, so firmly, if made Alex wonder at his sudden boldness.

 

"OK, Bear."

 

"So, you'll be here when I get home from work, tonight?"

 

"With bells on. Or dinner. Whichever you prefer." Alex smiled wickedly. 

 

"I prefer my dinner served on a plate on the table. Dessert, on the other hand, is negotiable," Walter smiled. 

 

Alex's heart fluttered. "Oh, shit! Don't be late!"

 

#

 

It actually took a few days for Scully to find out about Parenti's mysterious disappearance. Walter made Doggett and Reyes swear to blab all, stressing his concern over Scully's 'problem pregnancy,' and their need to stick together to keep Dana and the baby safe. When he found out through Reyes that Scully had been informed that a new doctor would be taking over Parenti's practice, he wasted no time in taking Dana out to lunch to plant the bug-a-boo of Consortium shenanigans into her shell-like ear. He also arranged for his old friend Dr. Fischer to 'bump' into them at the diner. Since Joe was on his way in, while they were on their way out, they didn't go beyond introductions, conversationally, but the 'chance meeting' allowed Walter to wax enthusiastically about Joe and his clinic all the way back to the Hoover. 

 

When someone from the state board contacted Scully about any possible problems she might have experienced with Parenti, she cancelled her appointment with the new doctor, and asked Walter to get her in to see Dr. Fischer. Walter magnanimously offered to drive her down Sunday morning. He then phoned Joe and Alex to let them know. 

 

Alex contacted his Resistance friends, and they sent over a 'guest' who took Walter's place that Sunday. The alien shape-shifter picked Scully up and drove her to Joe's clinic, which was usually closed Sundays, but Joe explained to Scully that Walter had told him hers was a hush-hush case, so he was taking special precautions to keep her out of the 'general patient population' for all their sakes.

 

Scully approved of his concern and his precautions.

 

They all three went back to the examination room, where Joe gave Scully a clipboard, for her medical history. He could keep her file separate from the others in his office, but he wanted a file for his own use, to properly chart her progress. 

 

The alien took out a special ball point pen, as if he was going to lend it to Scully so she could fill out the forms. Instead, he released an undetectable gas hidden inside a pressurized cartridge inside the pen barrel that incapacitated the humans in nano seconds. He grabbed Joe before the doctor fell over, and settled him onto the examination table, then scooped Scully out of her chair and carried her into the new laser operating theater. He replaced the argon laser component with a ruby one, prepped Scully, then drew the canister with the human fetus from inside his person, performed the switch, stowing the alien fetus in the canister, in turn. Finally, he reinserted the canister inside his body, cleaned up, switched the laser rods back, and put Scully back into her chair in the examination room. 

 

He picked Joe up, and, holding him upright with the help of a discreet tentacle while proffering a real pen to Scully, revived the humans with a spritz of antidote gas. They looked a little confused, but quickly shook it off and went about their business as if nothing had happened. 'Walter' took back his pen when Scully finished filling out the forms, and went out to the waiting room while the humans went through the normal examination process. Thanks to alien technology, there was no trace of the surgical procedure on Scully's flesh.

 

A few days later, Reyes told Walter that she was getting better vibes off of Scully, and concluded that she thought Scully's pregnancy problems had resolved themselves. She'd told Scully and Doggett first, of course, so Walter wasn't surprised when Scully called to make another lunch date with him, at which time she confided that she felt better, physically, under Joe's recommended regimen, and that her mother had also remarked on how much better she looked, and that she was well pleased with Dr. Fischer. 

 

Walter had been so happy, he'd actually hugged her, which got him into a bit of hot water with Alex that night, after work. (Alex forgave him for his PDA once the Assistant Director demonstrated that his public displays had nothing on his private ones, while Walter had to remind himself that he *was* dating an agent currently at loose ends in order to forgive Alex for spying on him.) Of course, pounding Alex's ass through the mattress helped dispel the majority of Walter's complaints, and what remained did not survive his sated slide into sleep.

 

As for Alex, once his ability to think returned, he felt relieved. Another hurdle crossed, another trust issue put to bed --literally! His relationship with Walter was looking more and more like 'the real thing.' That was a pretty scary thought to a man whose past three significant others had either committed suicide or been murdered. Especially considering how precarious life could be for the pair of them. Walter would be even more vulnerable now that he was openly living with --if not exactly advertizing his relationship with-- Alex. Luckily for Alex, the night had been long and adrenaline-charged, and so had the sex, leaving him absolutely no energy to worry. He snuggled into Walter's arms and followed his lover into oblivion.

 

#


	16. Chapter 16

#

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

#

"God and Nature first made us what we are, and then out of our own created genius, we make ourselves what we want to be. Follow always that great law. Let the sky and god be our limit and eternity that great law." --Marcus Garvey

#

Walter Skinner's Condo, Vista Towers, Crystal City district, Arlington, Virginia

Sunday, September 9th, 6:30 a.m.

#

 

Life was just about perfect, Walter decided. Not that it was without problems altogether. The task force assigned to find Mulder had made no progress since Arizona, for lack of leads. With Gibson safely stashed in his new, alien free, detection-safe hide-away, there had been no new appearances by the bogus Mulder. The real Mulder was still aboard the UFO. Alex had had no word from the Resistance as to when they'd let him go, either, but, at least, they had some assurance that he was being cared for and would eventually be returned to them, even if Dana did still occasionally wake up in the middle of the night with visions of Mulder being tortured, like Christ on some sort of alien cross. 

 

Doggett and Reyes were still working the X-Files with Scully, and the good news was: they were staying pretty much on budget. Of course, they weren't taking as many field trips as Mulder and Scully had, which was also good news, as far as Skinner was concerned, because X-files being X factors as far as threat vectors were concerned, the trio had had their share of close calls. Luckily, the fetus was still alive and thriving, as if it had always been in it's mother's womb. 

 

On other work fronts, the F.B.I. had a new Director, Robert Mueller, who had taken office September 4th, replacing Louis Freeh, who had been Director since September 1st, 1993, and who had been the man who had put the X-Files under Skinner's aegis in November of that year. 

 

Skinner sighed. He had come into the F.B.I. under Clarence M. Kelley, back in 1977, the year the Criminal Investigations Division had been opened. Then, from 1978 to 1987, he had worked for William H. Webster. William Sessions had had the Directorship from 1987 to 1993. It was Sessions who had promoted Skinner from the Special Agent In Charge of the Phoenix, Arizona Field Office, to Assistant Special Agent in Charge of the New York Bureau Office, to the Assistant Director of the CID back in 1992, replacing Larry Potts, who had been promoted to Deputy Director following the Ruby Ridge incident.

 

Tallying it up, in his twenty-four years on the job, Skinner had seen seven Directors, (including interim Acting Directors), come and go, and, as with all changes of leadership, the Bureau was in transition once again. Brad Folmer had been promoted to A.D. of The National Security Division, replacing Kersh. He was a young man, this Folmer, and he seemed to have a 'past' with Special Agent Reyes, or, at least, that's what Alex had told him, when he brought the promotion up over supper. Walter wasn't quite sure that it was his business to confirm or deny that kind of information, he was more worried about Folmer's allegiances. It did seem clear from their inter-office visits and Thursday Executive Conferences, that he was a crony of Kersh's, but Skinner had yet to determine if it was a simple case of sycophantic sucking up, or a more sinister sort of cronyism. 

 

Skinner would have happily put in for retirement if he hadn't needed one more year on the job to get a full pension, as he was in no mood to shift operational gears to accommodate yet another boss. So he reminded himself that he was in a war, in order to muster up his tolerance and knuckled under this newest yoke because he was needed.

 

As for progress on the alien invasion front, The Lone Gunmen's MUFON friends were still happily plotting the location and flight histories of all the UFO's they could discern, and infecting more satellite systems daily, while Dr. Hauptmann thought she had finally mapped out Gibson's mental abilities and was ready to tackle the basic problems of alien detection. The problem, of course, was that it would be helpful for her to have an actual alien to experiment with, but they didn't dare get an actual alien near Gibson, for fear of losing him. They were, instead, relying on data supplied to them by Scully and Marita. 

 

As far as Alex could tell, Marita's grasp on the Consortium's reins was tight, and their mutually approved projects were proceeding apace. 

 

Walter's days were filled with meetings and paperwork, but his nights were devoted to Alex. 

 

Without Spender to worry about and toady to, Alex seemed to have more free time than he could handle. While he did still have 'side projects' on the back burner, they were matters he seemed to be able to handle from a distance, over the computer, or with an occasional phone call. 

 

That meant that he was spending virtually all his time at Skinner's condo, with or without Skinner. A fact which had prompted Walter to make an adjustment in his work schedule. In honor of Alex's continued presence in his life, Walter lightened his work load, putting his Deputy in charge of more of the caseload, and just letting the rest of the work slide. He made a point of quitting the office at eight p.m. sharp, which coincided with the time his secretary, Kim, went home. It was just late enough for the evening rush hour traffic crush across the Potomac to have eased up enough to make it actually faster to drive home than walk. Plus, he no longer came in to the office on Saturdays. This meant that his desk was no longer clean when he went home, the crew at Casey's Bar and Grill were beginning to forget what he looked like, and Kersh was convinced he was flexing his political muscles just enough to remind Kersh of what disasters lay in wait for his Department if anything untoward happened to 'his' X-Files people. 

 

Kersh was dead wrong, of course. Walter Sergei Skinner did not play petty office politics. The plain fact was: Walter finally had someone at home more important to him than his work or career, so, for the first time in his professional life, he was putting work second. Without those burning career ambitions keeping his ass in his chair for appearances' sake, he was free to enjoy his private life, something which was both a relief and a revelation to Skinner, who was sorry he hadn't seen what his ambitions were doing to his marriage before the damage was past repairing.

 

On the other hand...//Sunday mornings with Sharon had *never* been *this* good,// Walter thought, with just a touch of sadness. Or, perhaps it was regret for years wasted in normalcy. Then again, who cared what the Hell it was, as long as Alex kept sucking his morning wood like that! 

 

Walter was convinced he'd never had more or better sex in his entire life! HornyTeenager!Skinner could only *dream* of getting this much action; Soldier!Skinner had been too damned scared and needy to appreciate sexual artistry; and PostWar!Skinner had had a hard time adjusting to his Post War body's disfigurements and scars, its sudden limitations, and the years long rehabilitation.

 

But if Walter was sorry that he and Sharon had never enjoyed such sexual heights, he was also forever grateful that she had come into his life, for if she had not let herself be wooed by an unsure, abashed, ex-soldier, had she not devoted as much time and attention, interest, desire, and just plain nagging about his 'silent, macho, bullshit personality,' he was sure he would never have dared to have a relationship with anyone else, let alone had the courage to go after and win Alex's affections.

 

And speaking of affections...Alex had him just about wound up to the point of no return. "Oh, come on, baby! Do it to me! Yes! That's it! God! Yes! Yes! Ho-ly Christopher!" He shot his wad into Alex's mouth.

 

Alex lapped and nibbled him till he was drained and clean, then he giggled, pushed Walter's legs up and apart, and started an oral assault on Walter's ass bud.

 

Walter roared like a bull and jerked away. He didn't know why Alex insisted on rimming him. He couldn't bear the thought of Alex's tongue touching that dirty hole, but Alex insisted that he did it because he enjoyed it --and he knew damn well Skinner liked having it done to him, even if he couldn't understand why anyone *would* do it.

 

Which is why Alex grabbed Walter and held him still while he licked and sucked the now pulsing, silken hole. He hummed his pleasure, tongue fucking the A.D. as if someone had hidden a candy in there and he was determined to root it out. At the same time, he rubbed his groin against the mattress, looking, from the other side of the covers, like an inch worm running on a treadmill --lots of action, no progress.

 

Unlike the inch worm, however, Alex did finally attain ignition. With a final prodigious thrust of his tongue, he orgasmed, spraying the sheets, then, instead of coming up for air, he grabbed one of Skinner's legs as if it were his Teddy, and snuggled under the covers, as if prepared for hibernation.

 

Nice --and odd-- as the feeling was, Walter's bladder soon made its discomfort known. "Alex? Much as I'd love to lay here forever, I need to pee."

 

Alex stirred, letting go of Walter's leg long enough to turn onto his stomach, then his lips nuzzled Walter's penis, once more. "Just to pee?" he asked.

 

"There is no such thing as 'just to pee' to a man my age, Alex. If I don't get up and go --right now!-- I'm going to be dribbling my way to the bowl. Not something I want to contemplate. So, move it!"

 

Alex, perversely, did not move it. "If you're that far gone, just go ahead and piss, I'll get it," he said and, suiting action to words, he clamped his lips over the head of Walter's penis and waited.

 

Walter felt as if someone punched him in the guts. He jerked upright, yanking his penis out of Alex's mouth, and flang back the covers, exposing his startled lover.

 

"You are *not* a *toilet,* God Damn it!" Walter screamed. "I would *never* abuse or abase you like that!" He hurled himself out of the bed and ran to the bathroom.

 

Alex scratched his stomach and ambled into the bathroom after him. "Hey! Don't get your panties in a bunch, Big Guy. It's no big deal. *Really,*" he insisted, at Walter's disbelieving glare. "I don't consider taking care of my lover like that abuse, by any stretch of the imagination. Mama animals have been cleaning their babies that way since mammals evolved. There are Indian's --East Indians-- who think that drinking your morning piss aids your health and vitality. During World War II, when potable water was too scarce to waste, the British used piss to wash their hospital patients because, if there's no bladder or renal infection, urine is actually sterile. Before testing strips were invented, doctor's used to test for diabetes by tasting their patients' urine. And it's a well known survival tactic. You're a Marine, Walt, you surely did *some* survival training? Well, *I* did survival for real, man. I drank my piss the whole two weeks I was in the silo. Ate my own shit, too --in addition to every bug, twig, and patch of dirt I could find-- in order to keep the acids in my stomach from eating through the lining of my empty stomach. Hell! I drank my own piss every morning for six years when I lived at the Academy."

 

"The 'Academy'?" Walter asked as he shook himself dry and flushed. "You mean that spy school you were at?"

 

"Yeah. The Arntzen Academy. I know you've got this whole, I don't know, Puritan American hate for dirt and germs and stuff that exits the body thing going on, but, not everybody was raised that way, OK? So, like, lighten up, will ya?"

 

"They made a little three-year-old kid drink his own piss every morning?" Walter repeated, aghast.

 

Alex sighed. Leave it to Walter to fixate on that part of the narrative. He nodded. "Till I was nine. And it's not like it was a punishment, it was just... Academy routine. Everybody did it. Well-- I don't know if the teachers and staff did it or not, but all us kids did. Every morning they'd line us up in front of our cots and we'd pee in a cup and drink it warm. Not that any of us were *happy* about it, mind. The newbies always had an aversion to it when they first arrived, especially the older kids. But --heh-- they had a surefire way of making one little glass of your own piss look good --anyone who *didn't* drink up quick and hearty had to drink the piss of all thirty of their ward mates the next morning --force fed through a funnel-- and if you had the audacity to choke and vomit it up, you were on your face licking it up off the floor till you got every drop. You 

better *believe* we got used to the idea, damn fast."

 

Walter looked horrified. "Why? Why would they do that to children?"

 

Alex shrugged. "It was just a part of the training regimen. They used to tell us that in a survival situation we would need to know these things. Know them and do them without a second's hesitation --because missing the fluid content of even one voiding could mean the difference between living and dying. Damn! I've gotta tell ya, Walt, they were right. I'm alive today because of what I learned back then.... Not that I appreciated it at the time, of course. But then, who would have ever figured they'd get themselves in as desperate straits as I wound up in, hm? The important thing is: I learned, and I survived. Gotta be happy about that."

 

Walter threw his arms around Alex and hugged him tight. He kept forgetting the kind of childhood Alex had. The kind of life. Family meant the world to Alex. He would never have demeaned the feeling of family that existed between them now. He had, in his own quirky way, done his best to propagate it. "I'm sorry I over-reacted. I'm sorry I misunderstood your offer of what has got to be the ultimate loving gesture of trying to preserve the special feeling of our cozy Sunday morning nest. But I am who I am, Alex. Stuff like that...I don't know that I'll ever be able to...do that. But...I'll try not to read dark and dire perversions into your gestures from now on. That's the best I can do for now, Sweetie. Is that good enough?"

 

Alex smiled. It would take more than Walter's horror at the lackadaisical way he approached bodily functions to drive a wedge between them. "Of course it is, Bear. It's not like I didn't know I was shacked up with a stiff-spined germophobe. And, since I *do* understand, I'll go brush my teeth before I give you my 'I-accept-your-apology' kiss."

 

Walter grinned. "You are a prince among men. And, since we're up, *I* will go downstairs and make you some 'I-apologize-Sweetie' waffles, with pecans and buttered syrup, just for you." 

 

"And fresh peaches?" Alex asked, pulling out of Walter's embrace to bat his eyes at him in supplication.

 

"Oh, sorry, darlin', but we're out of fresh peaches. We only have bananas, or canned pineapple rings."

 

"Ooh, tropical waffles. Make 'em with both, Bear! And don't get dressed, just put on that cute little 'Kiss the Chef' apron. I promise it'll be worth your trouble." He wiggled his eyes suggestively.

 

"Just having you here with me every morning is worth the trouble to me. Now get in there and brush your teeth before I forget myself and kiss you and gross myself out!" Walter swatted Alex's bare backside, impelling him into the bathroom alone, while Walter made a bee-line for the kitchen.

 

Walter was busy minding the stove, and the bacon, sausage, and eggs he was cooking to fortify the waffles, when Alex padded downstairs, naked, and cinched Walter's waist from behind. 

 

Alex made sure to breathe his minty fresh breath into Walter's ear, then he turned off the burners, and backed Walter away from the stove. His penis pulsed at Walter's crack, teased by Walter's apron strings, and he trilled his joy at being able to rub skin against skin. 

 

Alex backed into the table, and shifted to perch on its solid wood surface. He then wrapped his legs around Walter's. One heel came up to rub Walter's groin through the barrier of apron, and he latched his mouth onto Walter's ear lobe and sucked and teased it with his tongue. 

 

His tongue ventured into Walter's ear, then to his throat. Finally, he spun Walter around and claimed his mouth. His clever toes found and pulled one of Walter's apron strings, and, as his leg lifted delicately into the air to brace itself on Walter's shoulder, the toes let go and his hand grabbed the

loop of string around Walter's neck and drew it up and over Walter's head, then let it drop to the floor between them. 

 

"I'm feeling tropical. Got any coconut oil?" Alex asked. He opened his prosthetic hand. "I brought a condom."

 

"Just happen to have," Walter growled. He reached behind him, opened the jug of coconut oil, and poured a generous amount of the highly scented oil onto his palm. Alex rolled the condom onto Walter's erection, and Walter greased it up, wiping the remainder of the oil into Alex's crack. He inserted his cock into Alex's slippery hole and plunged home. 

 

"Oh, yeah, Bear, fuck me! Fuck me hard!" His other leg moved up to curl around Walter's waist and help his lover thrust into him. Walter crushed Alex to his chest, folding him double, and kissed him deeply while he pumped into him. Alex's prosthetic flapped randomly against Walter's side, as Alex was too excited to be too precise using it, and he didn't want to crush Walter inadvertently. His real hand gripped Walter's arm, anchoring them together.

 

Walter roared and pushed Alex's leg off his shoulder. It promptly wrapped around him, crossing ankles with its partner. Walter shifted his hands down, gripped Alex's ass, lifted him off the table, dropped him onto his penis, and humped for all he was worth, till they couldn't be sure which of them was getting the harder pounding. 

 

Finally, Walter came with a shout. He gave a last heave, and shifted his hands up to let Alex's butt hit the tabletop once more. He pushed Alex's back onto the tabletop, pinched the base of Alex's penis and pulled down Alex's balls, then he leaned over until their chests were touching and whispered into Alex's ear: "I brought a condom down with me, too. Want to help me make waffles?"

 

"Uhhh...batter up?"

 

Walter grinned and straightened up to grab the coconut oil again. He rolled the condom onto Alex's erection and greased it up. Then he picked up his apron and made a show of putting it on, turning around to show off his ass while he tied the apron strings, walked over to the sink, washed his hands, dried them with a hand towel, and went over to the counter where the waffle iron was steaming away. He rescued the waffle inside it, then spooned more batter into the machine, closed the lid, and began to hum: "Nothin' says lovin' like somethin' from the oven...."

 

Alex hopped off the table and moved behind Walter once more. He spread his lover's legs, and rubbed a good handful of coconut oil into his crease. "Hmm...we should be making donuts, I'm good at punching holes into dough," he murmured as he squeezed Walter's ass. 

 

Alex positioned his penis and thrust his hips up to breach the guardian circle of muscle. Then he melted against Walter's bare back, brought his hand up to tease Walter's nipples through the apron cloth, and rocked into him, balls deep. "Oh! So tight! So hot!" 

 

He giggled. "It just struck me: girls get buns in their oven, but you've got an oven in your buns!" He rubbed his hand up and down the side of Walter's body, from thighs to armpits, then down and over the bit of ass that was peeking out from the apron. 

 

"Mmm...they look like they've been baked long enough, too --they're so beautiful, a real golden brown. No more tan lines." He grinned. "I must be having a bad influence on you --you've been sun-bathing in the nude." He pictured Walter laying out on his balcony, pictured himself rubbing tanning lotion over Walter's bare backside, and almost drooled. "Oh, God, I love it!" 

 

Alex backed off an inch or so, so he could watch his rod pump into Walter's tan ass. "Oh! Ah! Walter!" He tightened his grip on the A.D. and rode through his orgasm. Then he clung to him, not pulling out, while Walter pulled another waffle from the iron. 

 

"OK, Alex, we're done," Walter said gently, over his shoulder, some time later.

 

"Hm? Oh, right." Alex took a deep breath. "Hmm...smells good." He let loose of Walter, pulled out, and cleaned up at the sink, while Walter laid the waffles and other breakfast items onto the table. 

 

They ate their fill, washed the dishes, then took their coffee into the living room, where they cuddled up on the sofa to read the Sunday paper.

 

Walter was half-way through the paper when the phone rang. "Skinner here....." He bolted upright. "I'll be right over." He slammed the phone down. "That was John Byers. Their UFO geek buddies called. They've found Teresa Hoese. She's in a hospital in Montana. I've got to go."

 

Alex jumped up from the sofa and dogged Skinner up the stairs. "Not without me, you aren't."

 

Skinner didn't argue. Once they were dressed, packed, and heading out the door, en route to the Gunmen's Baltimore hideout, he called Dana and John Doggett on the cell. Dana had already been notified and beat them to the Gunman's by several minutes. John said he would get ahold of Monica and Skinner made sure they knew to pack a bag.

 

By the time Doggett and Reyes joined the group, fifteen minutes after Skinner and Krycek had arrived, another abductee had been reported 'found' about forty miles east of the drop-off point of Teresa Hoese, and Langley was on his computer making flight arrangements. 

 

#

 

Skinner, Scully, Krycek, Doggett, and Reyes entered the double glass doors of St. Jean Hospital and made a bee-line for the Information desk, conveniently located fifteen feet from the door. Skinner identified himself, and asked for the attending physician, a Dr. Desai, who was paged immediately. 

 

He came out minutes later, looking a bit disheveled, and scanned the men. "Which of you is Mr. Skinner?" he asked. 

 

"I'm Skinner. Dr. Desai?" Walter held out his hand and they shook greetings. 

 

"I was just told you were on your way. That you flew out here all the way from Washington, DC."

 

"Yes," Skinner confirmed. It had taken them three hours to get to Helena, Montana's capital, and during the flight they had been contacted by Byers and informed that a third person had been discovered, in yet another county. Skinner had called the Helena police to alert them that the F.B.I. was taking over Mrs. Hoese's and any other 'returnee' cases in the area, because, as a resident of Bellefleur, Oregon who had been kidnapped and transported over state lines, she definitely fell into the Bureau's bailiwick, and they suspected the others would prove to be the same. "We're here to see Teresa Hoese."

 

"I know. I just wish someone would have consulted *me* first. I -- well, this woman is in no condition--"

 

"--What *is* her condition?" Scully interrupted. "I'm Dr. Dana Scully, by the way." She flashed her I.D. badge. 

 

"Ah, well, that's hard to say. In twelve years, I have never seen anything approaching this type of mistreatment. Not that we get a lot of abuse cases out here--" 

 

"--Doctor, it's important we see the victim and talk to her, if we can, about what happened," Doggett interrupted in turn, wanting to speed things along. 

 

Desai nodded, and made 'follow me' motions as he took off down the hallway. He led them to the CCU, where Mrs. Hoese was plugged into enough hoses to water the average front lawn. She was sleeping, but they could see three bruises alined on each of her cheeks. "I had her sedated. If I'd known you were coming.... Well..., as you can see, she's not in a position to answer any 

questions at the moment. The medics said she asked for her baby, last night, I suspect it's all she's holding on to, but she hasn't said a word to anyone here. Just promise me, whoever did this, you guys will do everything in your power to catch them."

 

Scully caught sight of the matching triple scars and her hand went to her mouth as if to gag her impulse to blurt out that they corresponded to the hooks she had dreamt were immobilizing Mulder's face. "What, exactly, did they do to her?" Scully asked the doctor, ignoring, for the moment, the chart at the foot of the bed. 

 

"Well, I'd have to speculate but, you see the marks on her cheeks? It's as if the person who did this wanted to hold her still, so she couldn't move. There's no trace of drugs in her blood, which leads me to speculate that everything that was done to her was done without anesthetics, and considering the bruising, I'd have to say she was conscious through most of the procedures performed on her. Her chest and abdomen walls were breached and organ tissue biopsied. In the x-rays there is evidence of drill-like damage to the soft palate. It's almost like someone was cataloguing her parts." 

 

"In the x-rays, did you see, um... anything else? Foreign objects?" Scully asked. 

 

"I'm not sure what you mean," Desai said.

 

"Little wafers of striated metal," Scully clarified.

 

"Shrapnel?" Desai asked.

 

"You might think so, at first glance, but no. These are machined rectangles, approximately one by two by six millimeters. They're usually implanted into the sites of penetration, sometimes in the nasal cavity or sinuses, sometimes at the base of the neck, around C-7, sometimes in the abdomen, sometimes in the limbs, sometimes behind or a little above the temporal-mandibular joint." 

 

"Uh, no, I didn't." 

 

The door to CCU opened to admit a pair of local constabulary."They told me at the front desk that Agent Doggett was here. He requested to see the police report on Mrs. Hoese?" The lead man said, waving the file in the air as if it was bait that would lure his target out from anonymity. 

 

Doggett lifted his hand in acknowledgment, and took the proffered file. He glanced over it, then looked over at the still unconscious Teresa Hoese, then Scully. "You're welcome to stay here and discuss foreign objects with the Doc, here, but...," he waggled the file, "looks like the locals've got a suspect in custody."

 

"I'd just as soon hit the road and check out the other victims," Krycek said.

 

"Mrs. Hoese isn't the only victim?" Dr. Desai blurted. "Oh, God!"

 

Skinner frowned at Krycek, and looked at the doctor. "We haven't confirmed that, as yet. We have yet to consult with the proper authorities." He turned back to Krycek. "But that will have to wait until we get the situation here straightened out, and we'll need the car to do it, so that leaves you here, or in the car."

 

"In that case, I'll stay here and wait to see if Mrs. Hoese wakes up," Krycek decided.

 

Doggett looked at Alex sourly. "You stay with him, Monica. We'll check their suspect out and get back to you."

 

Skinner was almost amused at Doggett's distrust of Alex, but he couldn't fault the man for being cautious, so he let it pass. It was clear they weren't going to get anything out of Mrs. Hoese until she woke up, and odds were the locals had grabbed up an innocent in their zealousness to close the case --'cause no way were they chasing UFOs. He looked at Scully and nodded, and they placidly trailed after Doggett, who was, in turn, following the locals. They took the rental --Skinner made sure he drove-- and dogged the cops to the station house. 

 

Once there, they were escorted from the parking lot to the observation room of interrogation room two. The suspect was sitting at the interrogation table, being grilled by another pair of Helena's finest. 

 

Scully gasped. "That's Richie-- Richie...," she searched her memory for the teen's last name, but, unlike Mulder and his eidetic memory, she had forgotten the details. "Damn! From Bellefleur, Oregon. He's not responsible for this!"

 

"Says here his last name is Szalay," Doggett supplied as he glanced through the file again. "And are you sure about him?"

 

Scully flashed Doggett a look of pure scorn. "Of *course* I'm sure, Agent Doggett."

 

"'Cause, as a former cop, I've gotta say, it's awfully suspicious that he and Mrs. Hoese are from the same outta state town where she was kidnapped and that he's the one who found her and called it in to 911."

 

"It's a coincidence," Scully insisted.

 

"Yeah, well, cops don't tend to believe in coincidences," Doggett said. She glared at him again but he held up his hands. "I'm just tellin' you how it is. Don't shoot the messenger." 

 

"And *I'm* just--" Scully broke off in mid-sentence and shook her head vigorously, as if shaking off her temper. "Nevermind! Just let me in there." She immediately stalked outside and stepped down to the interrogation room door. Her two fibbie compatriots followed, and the locals who had brought them went to discuss the matter with their superior. 

 

The locals returned and knocked on the interrogation room door, called their people out, and let the feds in.

 

"Richie Szalay?" Doggett asked.

 

Richie, who looked weary but angry, looked up at his three new visitors. He gaped when he saw Scully. "Yeah." 

 

"I'm John Doggett. I'm an FBI Agent. This is Agent Scully, and Assistant Director Skinner, our boss."

 

Richie pointed at Scully. "Don't I know you?"

 

Scully nodded. "You do, Richie, from Oregon. We met late last spring, you remember?" 

 

They look at each other for a moment, sharing the memory of what had transpired that day, and Richie nodded. "Yeah. I remember."

 

"Richie, you live in Oregon... so what are you doing in Montana?" Skinner asked.

 

"Like I was telling the Fuzz, man: my buddy, Gary, right? He was abducted." He looked at Scully, as if seeking confirmation. "Right before your partner. I, I came looking for him. Gary, that is."

 

"So, what? You just decided Helena would be *the* piece of real estate to check out, out of all the places on Earth?" Doggett asked.

 

Richie twitched as if he wanted desperately to roll his eyes, only didn't dare to in present company. "*No.* I was following the news." 

 

"The news? What, like, the six o'clock TV news?" Doggett asked.

 

"Geez! The MUFON news! Da-ah! See, ever since Gary disappeared I've been going to these Internet chat rooms to talk about sightings and junk. Only there's this new group claiming to be able to track the UFOs down and their logs started in Bellefleur, so I figured it was worth a peep. So when they began reporting heavy traffic in this land corridor the last two weeks, I crossed my fingers and boogied out here as fast as I could. This is actually the first piece of real estate along the corridor I reached, and traffic reports put the UFO heading in this direction. I picked that field because it was directly under the flight path only I --I never...I never thought I'd find Mrs. Hoese like that. Not in a million years! But, like, it proves that these new guys know what they're talking about! And if the aliens are dropping off the Bellefleur abductees-- Gary could be next!

Somebody's gotta be out there, keeping an eye out along that corridor, to find the next returnee!" 

 

"Two others have already been found," Scully admitted. "We haven't ID'd them yet, though."

 

Doggett scowled. "Richie, when you found Mrs. Hoese, you said you saw somebody with her. You told the police it was an alien. You know what a moulage casting is, Richie?" Richie shook his head. "It's what the cops take when they find shoe prints, or other kinds of impression evidence in the dirt. They do these plaster-like castings and the ones they got from the field that night were from nine and a half Nikes. You ever hear of an alien in Nikes?"

 

Richie snorted. "Doesn't mean it wasn't."

 

"Did you actually *see* this alien, son?"

 

"Yeah!... Kinda.... It was just a shape, dark on dark," Richie admitted under Doggett's persistent stare.

 

Doggett shook his head. "Did it ever occur to you that it wasn't an alien but a man?"

 

"Then what about his spaceship?" Richie asked.

 

"You saw a spaceship?" Doggett asked.

 

"Dah! Why else do you think I ditched my ride to go hiking that field in the middle of the night? And, anyway, I wear tens, myself, so I guess that pretty much proves it wasn't me, huh?"

 

Skinner looked up from the files. "Yes, I think that pretty much clears you."

 

Doggett looked over at his 'boss.' "What'd'ya mean? He coulda had an accomplice."

 

Skinner snorted. "Did you read the forensic report? There are two sets of footprints: Richie's and the unsub's. They came from different directions, from different vehicles. There were tire and footprints going in and coming out of the field from both of their respective directions, but guess what? There are *no* footprints from Mrs. Hoese, and her feet were clean. That means she had to be carried in or dumped out from a third vehicle, because the weight displacement measurements on both sets of footprints is exactly the same going in as out, and the weight displacement on the tires of the cars did not change, either. That rules out both Richie and the unsub as the person who put Mrs. Hoese in the field. Plus, there's no physical evidence that Mrs. Hoese was in Richie's van, and credit card receipts for gas pretty much prove that he did, in fact, just reach Helena, and the other two vics were found east of here, so he couldn't have been involved with *their* appearances, and, if they're from Bellefleur, as well, it stands to reason that whoever took one of the vics, took --and dumped-- all of them. So he's innocent. 

 

"As for our mystery man, he's innocent of abducting Mrs. Hoese, as well," Skinner concluded. "Which means he's probably *not* an alien, but another UFO tracker, like Richie, here."

 

"Then how the Hell did Mrs. Hoese get into that field?" Doggett asked.

 

Skinner pointed upwards. "Like I said: she was dropped off."

 

Doggett groaned, but Richie grinned. "Yeah! That's what I'm talkin' 'bout!"

 

"The more important question is: what was the unsub doing in the field?" Skinner continued. "It's obvious that he *would have* taken Mrs. Hoese out of the field if Richie hadn't interrupted him, and I think he must have gone into the field *expecting* to find somebody, because he had a pick-up truck in which to haul them off. The question is: why? What does he want with them? How many has he already found and taken? Where did he take them, and for what purpose?

 

"How many abductees were there in Bellefleur, Scully?" Skinner asked.

 

"Fifteen residents," Scully said."Sixteen abductees, counting Mulder,"

 

"The UFO has been running along this air corridor for two weeks. In the last fifteen hours we've found three victims. So where are the rest of the fifteen victims? Did the unsub pick them up, or are they yet to be returned?" Skinner shrugged. "We have to find the unsub in order to find out. That should be the focus of our investigation.

 

"Richie, if we got you a map, could you outline the drop off 'corridor' for us?" Skinner asked.

 

"Sure!" Richie grinned.

 

Skinner nodded. "Come on, then. We need to coordinate a search team."

 

"We need to ID the other recovered victims, too," Scully added. 

 

Skinner nodded as he led Richie out of the interrogation room and headed for a briefing room. "I'll leave that up to you, Agent Reyes, and Alex, Agent Scully. You have all the prep work from your Bellefleur case to help you out. Agent Doggett, you can be our police liaison officer. Richie will show you where we need to be searching for more victims, and I want an APB out for all vehicles with tires that match the unsub's. I'm going to pay a call on our local Bureau Field Office and get the necessary Resident Agents on board. We'll need all hands on this."

 

None of the locals were happy with Skinner's decision, but since he was the man in charge, they did as he asked. Skinner contacted the county where the third returnee had shown up, first thing, so that Scully's eventual appearance wouldn't surprise them. He let one of Helena's State Police convince their out of county counterparts of the necessity of setting up the proper search parties along their particular stretch of the air corridor. In particular, to be on the look out for signs of trespass in any privately owned, isolated fields, and faxed them picures of the castings of the shoe and tire prints. 

 

Scully went back to St. Jean's hospital to pick up Monica and Alex, and, as Teresa Hoese had yet to wake from her meds, they drove out to see the other two people found and brought into their respective hospitals. Through some quirk of fate, one of the returnees was none other than Gary Edward Corey, Richie Szalay's best friend. Scully called Skinner at once so that he could relay the news to Richie, who, having been cleared and released from the Helena jail, wheedled Skinner --who exacted a promise from the young man not to exceed the speed limit-- into paying the impound fees on his RV so he could drive over to the hospital. Like Mrs. Hoese, both Gary, and the other returnee, whose name was Amanda Huggins, had the double sets of bruised puncture wounds in their cheeks, and exhibited the slightly elevated temperatures, puncture and incision wounds, and local swelling and inflamation consistent with biopsy and exploratory surgeries. Also like Mrs. Hoese, they had been drugged to the gills per doctor's orders. 

 

Scully left Reyes with Gary, and Alex --reluctantly-- with Amanda in order to get their stories when they came out from under, and returned, alone, to Helena to resume her vigil of Teresa Hoese. 

 

#

 

Jeremiah Smith, entered the St. Jean Hospital's intensive care ward looking very official in a doctor's lab coat. The night nurse looked up from her station as he approached. 

 

"Yes, doctor?" 

 

Jeremiah Smith, having, in a twinkling of an eye, morphed into a likeness of Dr. Desai, hemmed a bit hesitantly. "Yes, uh, I want to have a patient transferred: Teresa Hoese." 

 

"Tonight?" 

 

"Yes. Her vitals have been stable for hours, now, and, uh, her family wants her to be cared for closer to home. I'd like her readied for transport as soon as possible." 

 

"Yes, Doctor." 

 

As the nurse summoned an orderly to prepare the patient for transport, Jeremiah impatiently shifted his weight on his nine and a half sized Nike's and gave a furtive 'come ahead' wiggle of his fingers to his cohorts waiting in the elevator.

 

The two men, dressed as ambulance attendants, came onto the ward rolling a Gurney along with them, and joined 'Dr. Desai' at the nurse's station as they waited for Teresa Hoese to be readied for travel. When all her IV tubes and monitor wires had been transferred to portable stands and her monitor wires unplugged from the wall and floor units, they brought the Gurney into her room, transferred her and her IV bags to the Gurney, plugged her monitoring wires into portable units laying on the Gurney, then, wheeled her out to the elevator. 

 

Instead of continuing on downstairs, however, they held the elevator until 'Dr. Desai' signed the release papers at the nurse's station and joined them. Then they took the elevator down to the basement parking lot. They made sure no one was looking, then unhooked Teresa from her monitors and IV, loaded her into the back of an unmarked panel van, wiped down the Gurney and gear to remove any incriminating fingerprints, and drove off into the night.

 

#

 

A few hours later, Scully came onto the ward and flashed her badge at the nurse on duty. "I need to look in on Teresa Hoese."

 

"Um, Mrs. Hoese is no longer a patient of this hospital. She was transported earlier tonight at her family's request."

 

"What!?" Scully exclaimed. "Who authorized the transfer?"

 

"Dr. Desai."

 

Scully whipped out her cell phone and gave the Dr. a call. He denied it, but Scully was, by then, looking at the discharge papers. She demanded the Doctor come in to explain himself, and called Skinner to alert him of the loss of their returnee.

 

#

 

Some hours later, in a compound of migrant worker's shacks, Absolom, a strikingly handsome blond man in ranch casual denim and broadcloth shirting looking somewhere between 32 to 44 years of age, entered the largest of the buildings, a bungalow. The interior of the bungalow was divided in half. The left wing was set up like a hospital ward, with gauzy looking curtains separating ten beds thats head rails were set against the walls on either side of the room, leaving a central aisle between the bed's foot rails. 

 

The right wing was set up more like an indoor camping ground, still with rows of beds, but grouped together, as if families were cloistering themselves and their cots from their fellow campers with the gauzy curtains. 

 

Jeremiah Smith, standing beside one of the hospital ward beds, wiped Teresa Hoese's forehead with a damp cloth. She was sleeping peacefully, glowing with inner health, her face as smooth and unblemished as a porcelain doll's. 

 

Absalom, after a quick glance about, joined Smith. "How is she?" he asked softly. 

 

"Fine, now. She'll be able to return home and care for her child, and never have to worry about being abducted ever again." 

 

Tears of joy dewed Absalom's face at this happy news, and he gave Smith a hug. "Hallelujah, brother Jeremiah. You've saved another soul from eternal damnation and torment."

 

Jeremiah smiled back and looked at all the people in the beds throughout the building. "Yes. It's a good feeling."

 

#

 

Night along a dark highway. Officer Bruce Jeeter and Special Agent John Doggett were making their third circuit of their stretch of the so-called flight corridor. 

 

The police car's headlights were the only illumination in any direction except up, but since neither of the car's occupants was looking at the stars, they may as well have gone out. Officer Jeeter, driving, was mostly concentrating on keeping the car on the road and in its proper lane, and in ignoring the pack of Morley Lights cigarettes laying on the clipboard occupying the patch of bench seat between the two occupants. As Jeeter's eyes flitted from road to cigarettes to roadside to cigarettes, to instrument panel to cigarettes, his thumbs drummed a tattoo on the wheel. There wasn't much to see, just the asphalt berm demarking the shoulder of the road from the rolling fields of weeds and the dark on dark suggestion of hills in the distance beyond it.

 

Doggett, a put out pout on his face, slouched in the police car's passenger seat diligently scanning the gloom, as if he could actually see something in the dark fields during the brief second he eye-balled them while they whooshed down the road at fifty-five miles per hour. Skinner had insisted they lend the locals a hand, not just to make their presence known, but to make sure the locals took his alert seriously --even if Doggett didn't. Not really. But a superior was a superior, and orders were orders, and that was that.

 

Jeeter, stuck more or less erectly behind the more restrictive steering wheel, glanced over at his taciturn passenger as if not quite believing his misfortune at being assigned night patrol of endless miles of empty fields with a no-nonsense fibbie for company.

 

Bruce's left cheek twitched, making him look as jittery as he felt. He glanced longingly at the pack of Morley Lights. One of his last packs. He had already cut back to one pack a day, but he wanted to quit altogether. He'd tried several times but always caved in to the cravings. He looked out the window, checked the car clock: 11:36 p.m., then picked up the pack and tapped out the third 

cigarette of the shift into his mouth. 

 

Suddenly, the dashboard lights went out. The car engine died. Bruce grabbed up the mike and tried to radio in, but the radio was dead, too. Cursing, he coasted to the shoulder of the road and looked at Doggett. "What do we do now?"

 

Doggett frowned. According to several of the reports filed by Mulder himself, sudden car failure was a sign of the presence of a UFO. He didn't want to believe. He looked up. He really didn't want to-- "There!" //Damnit! This is not happening!// He pointed at a streak of light beyond the

windshield as it cruised past.

 

Bruce took the cigarette out of his mouth. "Comet?" he asked hopefully.

 

Doggett cursed under his breath and got out of the car so he could follow the progress of the light as it passed overhead. It was brighter than the stars, if, at this point, no bigger, and it was traveling swiftly across the dome of sky.

 

Doggett watched as the light grew. It turned into an assortment of smaller lights clustered about a large, glowing blue circle. It seemed not to fall out of the sky so much as stoop deliberately, like a hunting falcon, increasing in size as it neared the earth, and, although it was several hundred yards away from their position, and off the road, Doggett figured it had to have been a couple of football fields across, at least. 

 

The thing approached with such speed, they expected it to plow into the ground, but just when they reached a point where, in any earthly vehicle, there should have been no way to avoid a crash landing, the craft just stopped dead at treetop level. The blue glow extended from the belly of the craft as if it were a solid projection rather than an actual light, and touched ground. Then the light retracted and the UFO shot upwards in a blur of light, disappearing from view. 

 

As suddenly as they had died, the dashboard lights and the car motor came back on. The clock clearly said: 11:36. 

 

Bruce ticked the glass over the clock display with a fingernail. "Damn, that's weird," he commented as Doggett opened the side door and reclaimed his seat. "Usually, the clock flashes twelve when power's restored."

 

"Let's get out there," Doggett ordered, pointing towards the spot where the UFO had floodlit the ground.

 

Bruce turned the car around and headed out to where the light had touched ground. 

 

Doggett, in the meantime, put in a call on the now working radio transceiver, reporting the sighting, and their investigation of same, to the multi-agency's central headquarters, in Helena, where Skinner was coordinating their combined efforts with the aid of the local PD's staff. Then Doggett got out the car's spotlight, hooked it into the dashboard plug, turned it on, and stuck it out the window. It was like adding another high-beam to the car, only it lit up the areas Doggett wanted to see, rather than being confined to the area immediately in front of them.

 

Doggett swept the field to his right and caught a couple of figures in his beam. He backtracked to focus his light on them and yelled at Bruce. "There! That-a-way!"

 

The two figures froze, then scanned the ground, then dipped, hefted something up between them and charged back the way they had come --which was, unfortunately for their pursuers, even further away from them. The men hoisted their burden into the back of their pickup truck, and one of them climbed into the bed of the truck with it, while the other scrambled into the cab and started the engine.

 

"Follow 'em!" Doggett yelled. Not that he needed to tell Jeeter. They bounced over the uneven ground, came upon the spot where the men had first been seen. Doggett's beam dipped to help illuminate the area. "Woah!" Doggett's left arm snaked out, grabbed the wheel, and pulled it hard right. "I think I saw somebody on the ground! We'll come back for him. Get on those other guys!"

 

Jeeter didn't argue. 

 

Up ahead, the tail lights of the pickup truck danced like a red firefly as it jounced over the rutty terrain. 

 

"They're gettin' away!" Doggett yelled.

 

Jeeter sighed and stepped on the gas. They chased the pickup over the field, which appeared to be fallow, since the only crop it sported was weeds and speed bump-like furrows. Then the pickup hit a dirt road, fish-tailed, corrected, and lit out, churning up a rooster tail of dust.

 

Jeeter followed, closing the gap on the more even ground. Then the pickup passed a cattle grate. The man in the back of the pickup reached out, snatched something, and the grate lifted.

 

"Son of a bitch!" Jeeter slammed on the brakes. There was no traction on the dirt road though, so he skidded forwards. "Damn it!" Jeeter twisted the wheel and they sailed back into the field just as they reached the now open ditch. The left front tire dipped into the corner of the ditch, bounced out, and they came to rest ten feet beyond it.

 

Doggett looked at him. "Didja get the plate number?"

 

Jeeter's eyes rounded. "Hell no!"

 

Doggett picked up the mike and called the partial license plate in. "OK. Let's go back to the other body."

 

With the aid of the spotlight, they retraced their path through the weeds, coming to a halt when they spotted a flash of pink among the green. 

 

They were out of the car in a twinkling. Doggett reached the body first. He felt for a pulse, found one, and turned the man over. "It's Raymond Hoese," he announced. He stood up, again, wondering what to do. Then Officer Jeeter's uniform mike crackled.

 

"Agent Doggett? I ran the plate. Fortunately for us, there was only one pickup truck with those partials matching your description. It's registered to a farm about an hour from here," Skinner reported. "I'm securing a warrant, and organizing a strike force."

 

"Great!" Doggett snatched the mike from Jeeter. "Give me the 20, I'll meet you there." Skinner told him where the farm was. "Know where that is?" Doggett asked Jeeter. Jeeter nodded. "Copy that. Doggett out." He handed the mike back to Jeeter. "Help me get Ray here into the back of the car."

 

"Shouldn't we wait for an ambulance?"

 

Doggett gave Jeeter The Look. "No. Now help me with this guy and let's get on the road."

 

#

 

The pickup truck didn't slow down until it passed through the gates of the farmyard. There was no farmhouse in sight, only a bungalow and a bunch of clapboard shacks arranged into a sort of 'u' around a common quadrangle. Once upon a time it had housed the migrant farm workers that came in to reap the crops, then left for the next crop in another part of the country. In the middle of the quad there was a fire, over which a huge cauldron was bubbling. About fifteen people were lined up at the cauldron, accepting ladlefuls of whatever was cooking into tin camp plates. 

 

Absolom stopped the truck in front of the bungalow. "Everybody, get inside!" he yelled to the people at the cauldron. "Leave him!" he yelled at the man in the back of the pickup. The man nodded and hopped over the side wall of the truck and followed Absolom into the bungalow.

 

"What? What is it?" several people asked as they obediently left their dinners and trooped in after their leader.

 

"Jeremiah! I think I've found him! But they're coming." 

 

"Who? Who's coming?" Jeremiah asked.

 

"The police! They chased us," Absolom said.

 

"We lost them!" the man who had been in the back of the pickup with their rescuee said.

 

Absolom shook his head. "I don't think so. We've got to leave. Everybody! Pack up!"

 

"Where is he?" Jeremiah asked as the other camp people began bustling about, packing their meager belongings, gathering up their children, and heading for their transpo.

 

"Out in the truck," Absolom said. "There was another man dumped there, as well, but before we could get them both, the police showed up. I decided to take this one and go."

 

Jeremiah ran out to the pickup, Absolom on his heels. Just as they reached the truck, Doggett's voice, amplified through a megaphone, roared through the gloom to their ears. "Federal Agents! Nobody move!"

 

Absolom and Jeremiah started, glancing alternately from the truck bed, where a blanket covered form lay motionless, and all about them as if trying to figure out where the voice had come from, while other members of their group who had already left to pack up their belongings, or had been in other areas of the compound, began running in all directions in a vain attempt to escape, all the while yelling for friends and family members, or screaming mindlessly in abject fear. 

 

At a signal from Doggett the law enforcement people turned on their car spotlights, headlights, and hand held flashlights, catching the cultists like cockroaches in a tenement kitchen. The lawmen stood shoulder to shoulder in two concentric circles that completely surrounded the compound. There was nowhere to hide as the outer circle of agents held the line and let the inner circle of agent chase down the milling cultists yelling: "FBI! Don't move! On the ground now! FBI! Move! Move! County Sheriff! Freeze! Helena PD! Move! Go on! Move!" 

 

"Everybody stand where you are! Hands on your heads!" Doggett ordered through his megaphone as he advanced up the main road, heading towards the pickup truck. 

 

Reyes; Scully, holding a five cell flashlight; Skinner; and Alex followed Doggett into the compound. All around them, amid the screams and confusion, the hash barking of orders pin-pointed the locations of their fellow law enforcement agents, who were rounding up Absolom's people from every direction. 

 

Doggett, one hand wielding his weapon, the other the megaphone, yelled: "FBI! Please remain calm! We have a warrant to search the premises. You are surrounded by law officers who are armed and prepared to shoot if necessary." 

 

Skinner stepped around Doggett and pointed his weapon at Absalom and Jeremiah Smith. "You there, at the truck! Hands on your head. Turn around so I can see you." 

 

Absalom did as he was told. He looked at Jeremiah, who turned around after a pause --only he didn't look like Jeremiah Smith when he finally looked at Skinner. Instead, he looked like a young man barely out of his teens who shared everything but Jeremiah Smith's face and time weathered skin. 

 

Doggett marched past the truck and the men standing beside it, and continued on into the bungalow. 

 

Reyes followed him, yelling: "Please don't panic. You are in no danger if you stay calm and where we can see you," she said. Then, like any good back-up, she looked both ways, then up. Nothing dangerous. She let her eyes drop back to find her partner.

 

Skinner stepped closer to the pick-up truck, close enough to reach inside and flip the blanket off the motionless figure laying in its bed. 

 

Scully, peering into the bed, gasped. "Mulder!" He looked as bad as Teresa Hoese had, with three distinct holes aligned down each cheek, and puncture wounds at his wrists and ankles. "We need the paramedics!" she yelled as she clambored onto the back bumper, intent on climbing inside. 

 

"Please, I can help him," the younger of the pair of cult members said.

 

"Don't move!" Alex threatened immediately, turning his weapon on the youngster. 

 

"He's been hurt!" not quite Smith said.

 

"He's been modified, and he needs to *stay* modified," Alex insisted. 

 

"So *you* say," Scully said, doubtfully. In truth, the less Mulder had to do with anything alien, the better she'd like it. Of course, she didn't know that Mulder would feel the same way. On the one hand, if he was 'un-modified' at this late date, he would have suffered for nothing. It was only for Mulder's sake that Scully decided to let Mulder make up his own mind about being 'healed' or not.. She gave the young cult member a hard look. "Are you the people who took Teresa Hoese?" 

 

The two men looked at each other, as if deciding whether to confess their sins or play dumb. In the end, they didn't have a chance to decide, because Doggett yelled at them first. 

 

Doggett had decided to let Skinner deal with the two men by the truck, as there was still the bungalow to secure, and a slight possibility of resistance. He headed inside and let the arm holding the megaphone drop to his side, megaphones not being exactly appropriate for indoor use, despite the commotion. He did keep his automatic up, however, aimed in the direction he was moving. He made a quick survey of the building. "We got what looks like a hospital in here!" Doggett yelled over his shoulder, whether to Reyes or to Skinner, just outside, was unclear. 

 

Monica decided to relay the information, in any event, and, added: "Agent Scully! We need you!"

 

Scully gave a quick glance at Mulder, then Skinner, then sighed and climbed out of the pick-up truck bed. Skinner helped her off the bumper, and she trotted over to the bungalow's door. She looked around, spotted Doggett, and walked over to him, passing through a drape of heavy-duty, clear plastic sheeting. Everything looked very medical. Scully directed her torchlight to each bed's occupant, and stopped when she spied a familiar face. "Teresa?"

 

Teresa Hoese, completely healed, blinked into the bright light.

 

"You better get AD Skinner in to see this," Scully said immediately. 

 

Doggett nodded and looked at Reyes, who sighed and backed out into the quadrangle. "A.D. Skinner? Scully says you need to see Mrs. Hoese."

 

"Yes!" Absolom interjected. "You need to see how we've helped these people!" 

 

"If I want your opinion, I'll ask for it," Skinner told him. Then, even though he trusted Alex to make sure no one touched Mulder but the paramedics, he waved an official agent over to keep an authorized eye on the two suspects before he left his post and came inside.

 

"Mulder was in the bed of the pick-up you followed," Skinner said to Doggett as he came into the 'infirmary.' "They hadn't had time to do anything to him, though. Good job."

 

Doggett nodded. "Teresa Hoese's in there," he said, pointing to a woman in a cot that Scully was examining. 

 

Skinner stared at Mrs. Hoese. She didn't have a scar on her. "That isn't possible, is it, Agent Scully?" Skinner asked as he stepped in for a closer look, Doggett and Reyes on his heels.

 

"The healing? The total absence of scars?" Scully said, deducing his meaning. "No. Not this fast; not with conventional medicine."

 

"Then how?"

 

Scully finished her examination and shook her head. "Mrs. Hoese? Do you remember me? Dana Scully? F.B.I.? We came to see you in Bellefleur after your husband was abducted?"

 

"Yes. I remember you," Mrs. Hoese said.

 

"Can you tell us what happened?"

 

"A man came to the door. He looked like my Ray, but I knew he wasn't. He tried to get me to come with him, but I refused. I told him I knew he wasn't my Ray, and he changed into this big man and chased me into the baby's room. I hit him, and there was this hissing --and that's all I remember until I woke up in the ship. I was in this machine-- it was horrible! Then...I woke up in the hospital --my face! It was all scarred. I was upset. The Doctor sedated me. Then I woke up here and a man, he said his name was Jeremiah Smith-- "

 

"--Jeremiah Smith!" Scully echoed, her surprise evident.

 

Skinner frowned. "That name means something to you, Agent Scully?"

 

"Yes, sir," Scully answered. "He's one of the aliens. A shape-shifter. A healer. A renegade. You remember the one? When Mulder ended up in Canada with the bees and the young girls he claimed were clones of his sister?"

 

"I remember," Skinner replied. It was yet another example of Mulder running off without back-up and nearly causing an international incident. Thank God the Canadians weren't as prickly about U.S. agents crossing their borders unannounced as the Russians were. "He was a rogue alien, right? Fell in love with humanity in all its flawed glory, and was being hunted by his own kind for interfering with the great plan?"

 

"That's the one. I don't know if it's just him, or if it's his whole...clone group, for lack of a better word, that have gone native, but I know the so-called Bounty Hunter aliens have killed at least six of his look-a-like 'brothers,' and I know he can heal. I've seen him. One of the people here must be Smith in disguise." Scully got a thoughtful look on her face as she pondered the implications. "I'm sorry for interrupting, Mrs. Hoese, please, finish your account," Scully prompted.

 

"Yes, well, Mr. Smith said he could fix me so the aliens would never bother me again. And would I want that? I said, Yes. Yes! And he touched me, and I felt this...golden glow surround me, and, now I'm all better." She ran her hands over her now smooth skin. "No more scars. No more aliens!" 

"That's how the Jeremiah I knew healed people, too," Scully confirmed.

 

"Whoa!" Doggett protested. "You mean we've got another shape-shifter on our hands?"

 

"That's exactly what I'm saying." Scully confirmed. 

 

"And he's not working *with* the Rebellion *or* the Colonists?" Doggett pressed.

 

"Not that I know of," Scully said.

 

Skinner frowned and bent down to address Mrs. Hoese. "Uhh... I don't know quite how to put this, but, uh, Mrs. Hoese, can you tell me if you can sense any aliens in camp?"

 

Mrs. Hoese frowned. "Of course not."

 

Scully gave Skinner a puzzled look. "Why would you ask her something like that?"

 

Skinner sighed. "I'll tell you later. Suffice it to say, Alex is right: we can't let Jeremiah 'heal' any more of the recovered Bellefleur abductees."

 

"Speaking of recovered abductees, I've got Mr. Hoese out in my patrol car," Doggett said. "Leastways, I *think* it's him, near as I can tell through the scarring."

 

"Raymond? He's alive?" Mrs. Hoese cried, as she sat up in her cot. "May I see him?"

 

"Do you think you're strong enough?" Dana asked. "It would be a bit of a walk."

 

"Please? I haven't seen him since he was abducted."

 

"You never saw him on the ship?" Skinner asked. 

 

"No. I was kept in that horrible device the whole time." She teared up again just thinking about it.

 

"Agent Doggett, you and Agent Reyes help Mrs. Hoese out to see her husband," Skinner said.

 

"Yes, sir," Doggett acknowledged. "But, uh, he was out cold, last I saw him." A stern glance from Skinner had him nodding. "Yes, sir. Right away. Mrs. Hoese? If you'll come with me?"

 

"Let the woman dress, first," Reyes said.

 

"Oh, right, uh, I'll be outside when you're ready," Doggett said, backing away even as his ears reddened.

 

"I'll go with you," Skinner said quickly, "to help Alex guard Mulder."

 

The ladies giggled as the males beat a hasty retreat, then they looked around for something for Teresa to wear. They helped her dress, then escorted her outside, where Doggett took her arm and helped her out to the car, which they'd left a quarter mile down the road, Reyes walking on her other side, just in case further support was needed.

 

Scully followed the trio outside, having nothing more important to do inside, and made a beeline for the bed of the pick-up. With Walter's boost up, she clambered inside, passed the flashlight to Walter, and once again pulled the blanket down so she could give the naked Mulder a once-over.

 

He had the triple face scars that the rest of the abductees from Bellefleur had, just like in her dreams. It made a shiver run up her spine, but she kept a professional demeanor as she ran her hands over Mulder's exposed body, looking for other marks that would match the wounds she had seen in her dreams without being too obvious about it. "No breaks," she said. "No obvious abrasions, there are signs of old puncture wounds at the wrists and ankles, but they appear healed..., no other signs of trauma on his body...."

 

"Try to wake him up," Walter suggested.

 

Scully pulled the blanket back up to Mulder's neck, then patted him softly on the face. "Mulder! Mulder, wake up! You're home! It's Scully! wake up!" She watched him. Eventually, his eyelids began to flutter. 

 

"Scully?" he croaked.

 

"That's right, Mulder!" she enthused. "I'm right here."

 

His eyes came all the way open. "God! My head!"

 

"Your head hurts?" Scully asked. "Like a headache, or like a head wound?

 

"Hmmm...like...static...on a radio."

 

Walter and Alex exchanged glances.

 

"Where's the static coming from?" Walter asked.

 

"Walter?" Mulder asked.

 

"Yes, Mulder, I'm here."

 

"You believe me now?"

 

"About the little grey men? Oh, yeah, Mulder. It would be kind of silly not to, at this stage of the game."

 

"Scully! He called them little 'grey' men! He does believe!"

 

Scully smiled. "Yes, Mulder, he *does* believe. We *all* believe."

 

"We do?" Mulder wondered. He probed his head with a hand. "I must be dreaming."

 

"You're not dreaming. Time to focus, Mulder," Walter insisted. "Where is the static coming from?"

 

"From? Inside my head!"

 

"Wrong answer. Try again," Walter insisted. "Concentrate. The static is coming from a source outside yourself. Where is it coming from?"

 

Mulder glared at Walter for a moment, then his eyes rounded. "Oh! Wow. Um... Hm!" Mulder's left arm breached the blanket and pointed directly at the young man suspect. "Him! It isn't me, it's him!...How did you know that, sir?"

 

"Later."

 

Mulder's eyes narrowed as he stared at the young man. "Wait a minute, I know you....you're Jeremiah Smith! I'll be damned! You're alive! How the Hell are you?" he said with genuine affection, not noticing the reactions of the people around him.

 

"He's Jeremiah Smith!?" Alex squawked.

 

"Krycek? Is that Krycek? What is this, old home week? What the fuck is he doing here?" Mulder roared.

 

"Saving your ass, as per usual," Alex smirked.

 

"You set me up!"

 

"I made your fondest dreams come true!" Alex retorted. "Now shut the fuck up. I need to talk to your little alien friend, here."

 

"Jeremiah is not an alien abomination!" Absolom exclaimed. "The aliens are trying to kill him because he saves us *from* the aliens!"

 

"Whatever!" Alex retorted. "I need to talk to him. Now."

 

"You can't talk to him, you haven't got any authority," Mulder sniped back, not wanting Alex to get the last word.

 

"Well, *I* have *plenty* of authority," Walter said. "Is there some place private we can talk, Mr. Smith?"

 

"There's an office in the infirmary," Jeremiah said.

 

"Fine. Let's go," Walter said, taking Jeremiah by the elbow and walking him into the infirmary.

 

"What about me?" Mulder whined.

 

"You keep as far away from Smith as humanly possible," Alex said over his shoulder as he followed Walter inside.

 

"Go with them, Scully, be a fly on the wall," Mulder insisted. "I'm fine."

 

Scully nodded. She hadn't wanted to admit it, but she was plenty curious as to what Alex had to say, herself, she just hadn't wanted to leave Mulder. With Mulder urging her to 'spy' for him, she had a sop to her doctor's guilt over abandoning a patient, and she wasted no time in moving to the pick-up's tailgate. "You!" She said to the anonymous local agent who Skinner had dragooned into watching the two male suspects, "Help me down! Stay here, and don't let either one of them out of your sight until the paramedics get here," Scully said in no uncertain terms.

 

"Yes, ma'am," he acknowledged. "Should I cuff him?" he nodded at Absolom.

 

Scully appraised the handsome suspect cooly. "Yes. I think that would be a good idea, agent," she approved, wishing she had the balls to have Mulder handcuffed as well.

 

#

 

The infirmary office was located at the end of the hospital wing. It was big enough to hold four beds, but its bare white walls contained nothing more than a laminated wood table that could seat eight and two plastic and metal 'cafeteria' chairs. The windows were covered with the same gauzy fabric as the infirmary privacy curtains and, although it was dark out, looked to be as effective. 

 

Walter pulled out one of the chairs and motioned for Jeremiah to take a seat. By the time Walter had circled the table to take the other chair, Jeremiah had shifted back to his standard human guise, that of an older man with a heavily lined face, silver grey hair, and kind, blue-grey eyes. Walter tried not to look disconcerted as he sat in the other chair, and shifted it to a more comfortable position. Then Scully came in. Walter sighed and got up to give the seat to Scully, hitching his ass onto the left corner of the table, instead. Alex took up a position on Jeremiah's right. 

 

Jeremiah looked at each of them, in turn, then spoke to Alex. "You nearly exposed me out there. Absolom's mind is very black and white. Keep talking about how I'm an alien, and these now grateful abductees will tear me apart like a pack of rabid dogs. Is that what you want?"

 

"No, of course not," Walter said immediately.

 

"Then let me go. Your intrusion here is not wanted and it only puts your people-- abductees from all over the country-- in danger. I'm the only one who can truly save them. The only one trying to."

 

"No, *you're* the one putting us in danger by 'healing' the abductees from Bellefleur," Alex insisted. "They're different from the other abductees. They are --or were-- the only humans who could detect aliens with their minds. Maybe you noticed that. Maybe that's why you're 'fixing' them: to take away their abilities before they expose you to your psychopathic buddy outside."

 

:"No. These people were altered against their will. I was just trying to repair them so that they would no longer be of interest to the invaders," Jeremiah said.

 

"I've read the files on you that Mulder made," Walter said. "I know you like humans and want to help us, and that your 'clone type' for lack of a better term, is being exterminated by the Hunter aliens because of it. But you can't claim you want to help mankind, then turn around and destroy our only means of protecting ourselves from infiltration by oilien carriers. Can't you be selective," Walter said, "and just not heal the abductees the resistance produces?"

 

"I can't suddenly tell these people that I will help some of them, but not others, and I can't continue to help *anyone* if doing so will expose me as an alien to people like Absolom," Jeremiah said.

 

"Me, personally, I'm willing to lose a few abductees if it means saving the human race as a whole," Alex shrugged. 

 

Jeremiah shook his head. "I can't be so insensitive."

 

"Why not?" Alex asked. "It's not as if they're your people."

 

"That's precisely why I can't. Don't you see? It was that logic which led the oiliens to destroy *my* race, and to attempt to destroy yours. First, they were willing to sacrifice a few of their own in order to save the many, then they were willing to sacrifice all of my people because we weren't theirs in order to save their own race. I will not succumb to such evil. I am here for your people and for mine." 

 

"Then can you figure out a way to avoid picking up the humans we need for our defense?" Walter asked.

 

Jeremiah shook his head again. "I'm not the one with the ability to predict where the ships will leave their victims," he said. "That is Absolom's gift and, as I said, his is a very black and white mind. He sees anything alien as a danger, and anyone touched by the aliens as an injured party. There is no way I could convince him to not pick them up if he is able, and no way I could, in good conscience, not heal them if they themselves want to be healed," he insisted. 

 

"Jeremiah's right," Scully agreed unexpectedly. "I know for a fact that the only thing Teresa Hoese ever wanted was a normal life, raising a family with her husband. The resistance aliens don't care who they alter, but *we* should. If we just allow them to change people willy nilly, we're no better than the colonists."

 

Alex and Walter both frowned, thought about what she said, and finally nodded. "Yeah, OK," Alex conceded. "Jeremiah gets to ask them if they want to be healed, but he also has to tell them what they'd be giving up if they *are* healed," Alex insisted. "Some of them might want to fight for their planet, or country, or, at the very least, their own freedom."

 

Jeremiah nodded. "I know how your people think. I will ask. I will give them the choice. But, if you want me to not undo the modifications done to these select humans, you are going to have to protect me from them, somehow," Jeremiah said, "And not only from them, but from *all* of the aliens. Because *my* people are not so...accommodating."

 

Alex nodded. "I understand. Colonist or Resistence, your people don't tolerate the countermanding of orders for any reason. By helping us, you've defied the Colonists, by healing Teresa Hoese you've defied the Resistence. The colonist aliens are already trying to kill you, if the Resistance Aliens find out you've been healing their abductees, they'll put a hit out on you, too."

 

Walter shook his head. "We might be able to protect you from other humans, Mr. Smith, but as for your people...that might be asking more than we are capable of providing, at the moment," Skinner said honestly. 

 

"We do have these, though," Alex said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a portable brain jammer unit like Gibson's and dangling it from his fingers. "We know it jams the brainwaves of humans from your people. Maybe it will jam yours, too. Not that that would help you if your people have scanning units that can pick out alien life signs from human ones, but, even if this unit doesn't work, if you allow yourself to undergo some tests, we might be able to adjust one so it will work for you."

 

"Is that how you blocked your thoughts from me? With this device?" Jeremiah asked, pointing to the jammer. 

 

"As a matter of fact...no,"Alex smiled, thankful that he had been able to test the effectiveness of his mental discipline lessons with Gibson before he had a another meeting with the resistance aliens. "The unit isn't turned on."

 

"You can't read Alex's thoughts?" Scully said, looking suspiciously at the Russian.

 

"No," Jeremiah admitted. "And in all the years I've been on your planet, he's the only one of your kind whose thoughts I *haven't* been able to read --although I have met a few who were difficult to read. I *can* tell that he is wholly human and unpossessed, however," he smiled, dispelling Scully's suspicions along that angle. "No doubt another example of human kind's freakish adaptability." 

 

Walter frowned. "If you can't read Alex's thoughts, does that mean none of your people can? Because, if that's true, then he would be the only one of us who could contact you without giving away your position, but he's also the only operative we have who can contact the Resistance Aliens."

 

"Luckily, I'm *not* the only one *I've* ever met that the aliens can't read," Alex said. "I'm just the only one Jeremiah's come across. 

 

"So, how about it, Jeremiah? I give you this brain jammer and you promise to take some time out from your abductee rescuing operations in order to help some friends of ours conduct some experiments --nothing invasive or painful, mine you. It's just that they could use the help of a bona fide friendly alien to test our shields and detectors."

 

Walter and Scully turned to look at Alex with surprise and shock. "Brilliant idea!" Scully admitted.

 

Alex shrugged. "Just killing two birds with one stone, since he'll have to go to the complex to get tested for a jammer of his own, anyway. It's the only safe way to find out if the jammers and detectors actually work," Alex said. "Better to know for sure than to put one on and cross your fingers. We'll tell Absolom that we're showing you our facilities, per an agreement to work together, and, if we need more time, that we're conferring with you on ways to coordinate your efforts to fight the aliens with ours." 

 

Jeremiah looked at the three humans thoughtfully, then the brain jamming device. "All right. I agree. How does it work?"

 

Alex passed the unit over to the alien. "You stick these in your ears...then you open the control unit here, press this button, make sure the light comes on, close up the unit, and stick it in your breast pocket. 

 

"You can see that the light shows up even when the case is closed. If the battery gets too low to operate the device, the light will start flashing and you'll hear beeping through your earpieces. Langley said it runs on three lithium batteries, which are good for about a month, but its always a good idea to carry extra batteries. You don't want to be caught out in the middle of the sticks without batteries when the thing goes dead." 

 

Alex fished the unit back out of Jeremiah's pocket and turned the device over. "This is where the batteries go, and this is a compartment for spares.... As you can see, I've got two extra sets in there already. That's the number they recommended. It's waterproof to two atmospheres and has neutral buoyancy. The foam on the ear buds will expand to conform to your ear canal when your body heats it up sufficiently, the better to keep them in place, and they will selectively mute the noises coming into your ear, like high end concert plugs. Plus, the ear pieces are connected to the controller with a screw-in jack, rather than a plug in one, the better to keep you from losing your protection under strenuous movement conditions. You have to admit, it beats a colander helmet all to heck."

 

Walter and Dana chuckled at that.

 

"And don't worry about our people making reprisals against you," Walter said reassuringly. "Absolom might not be able to wrap his head around the concept that not all humans are good, and not all aliens are bad, but we can," Skinner said "and we welcome your help."

 

Jeremiah nodded. "Believe it or not, your ability to accept me into your social circle is just another example of your kind's adaptability. It is that one trait that convinced the oiliens to make slaves of you. Personally, I'd consider any trait that makes my race more interesting to those parasites as more a curse than a gift, but, since it's also helping me..." he shook his head.

 

"Yeah, but, on the other hand, if they hadn't been so fascinated with us that they decided to toy with us, see if they could make hybrids out of us, instead of starting colonization right away, we'd probably be dead or subjugated by now," Alex said.

 

Jeremiah looked at him oddly. "They haven't delayed the invasion. Ours was only ever an exploration fleet. We have none of the equipment needed to begin occupation on a global scale. Once your planet's suitability was confirmed, reports were sent to the ruling counsel, who made the decision to invade and ordered the main fleet to your sector. The fleet has been in transit ever since that day. The colonists circling your planet have only ever been waiting for the main fleet's arrival to begin the invasion in fifteen years, as scheduled. The only criteria of interest to the oiliens were your ability to be possessed, and your planet's many natural resources. Since oiliens can inhabit humans without engineering modifications to your bodies, they have no actual need of human-Hrii hybrids. Any dealings they had with your kind indicating otherwise was only a means of placating your collaborators so they would not sound a general alarm, or, possibly to stave off boredom or satisfy curiosity by seeing how far they could manipulate your genes."

 

Alex's jaw gaped, then he started to laugh. "Oh, God, that's rich! Did they ever have any intention of up-holding their end of the bargain with the old men?"

 

Jeremiah shook his head. "Once an oilien inhabits you, you have no more will of your own. Since you have had-- up until now-- no way of discerning a human possessee from a normal human, all the oiliens have ever needed to do is serially possess you till they got close enough to your leaders to take them over. Once that was accomplished, they could safely order your cooperation until colonization was too far along to resist. The more docile the population, the easier the invasion, the more resources can be utilized in far more constructive pursuits."

 

"But that doesn't sound all that complicated. Why didn't they do that right away?" Walter asked.

 

"Because, as I told you before, ours was only an exploratory force. The bulk of our ships are manned by Hrii --*my* people. There is, at most, one oilien for every ten Hrii. The more humans the oiliens infect, the more Hrii they have to release. Even though only Hrii with hostages are allowed on exploration ships, there are those of us who would rebel against our oilien masters no matter what the cost, given the chance. And the oiliens cannot take the chance of losing control of the ships, because *my* people are the only ones who can fly them. You see, while the oiliens' ability to possess another's corporeal body is their strength, it is also their weakness, for they need a certain number of oiliens to retain the knowledge they gain through such a possession. In other words, they couldn't just replace Hrii slaves with Human ones and kill all the rebels. They need to keep a certain amount of us alive, and keep a certain number of themselves in proximity in order to retain the knowledge we possess. With such a small initial fleet, the oiliens couldn't take the chance on a general mutiny."

 

"Then, the fact that the Resistance Aliens have at least one ship that is oilien free is not all good," Alex concluded. "Because if they released enough of your people to lose a shipful of them, they had to have seeded our population with at least that many oilien possessees."

 

Jeremiah nodded. "I have been a fugitive from my people for so long, I was not aware that there even *was* an, as you put it, Alien Resistance , but, if they do, indeed, have a ship of their own, there could be as many as thirty oiliens from that ship on your world. Thirty is the usual compliment of oiliens on board our craft."

 

"All the more reason to get as many human detectors up and operating as soon as possible," Walter said.

 

Mulder began screaming at the top of his lungs, so loudly they could hear him clearly even inside the infirmary office. "Oh, God! My head! Scully! Scully! Make it stop!"

 

Scully rushed out of the room to answer Mulder's summons. As Scully emerged into the open, she could see formerly quiescent captives running amok in the compound, their screeching cries joining Mulder's, too terrified to heed the warning shouts of the law enforcement personnel ordering them to stand still.

 

Mulder was sitting upright in the bed of the pick-up pressing his head with both hands, as if his skull would explode without the compression. As Scully stepped off the boardwalk porch, Mulder's eyes grew saucer-wide. He let one arm jerk from his head to point at the sky.

 

Scully turned to look where Mulder was pointing and saw a brightly lit object swelling in the bowl of the night sky. It finally hovered about five hundred feet above the compound's infirmary, a circular shape dotted with bright lights, like a big spot of 'un-natural constellations' in a fringing ring of familiar stars. Then a round, blue light lit up the innermost third of the craft's belly, which descended in what seemed to be a shrieking cylinder of solid light that pierced the roof of the compound on the office side of the bungalow. 

 

As Scully and the others, enforcement officer and captive alike, watched as if transfixed, the infirmary's windows shattered, as if they could not withstand the sonic assault. Mulder screamed, pressing his palms against his ears as if it were the sound, and not the proximity of so many aliens, that agonized him. 

 

Then the light disappeared and, with it, the sound. 

 

Walter's destitute wail: "Alex! No! Nooo!" rang through the shattered glass and out to the compound. 

 

It was only then that Scully realized the rest of them had fallen silent.

 

#

 

Just as Scully cleared the office doorway, Alex's wristwatch began to buzz. He looked at it as if it were a poisonous snake, coiled to strike "The Resistance Aliens are coming!" He shouted, and looked over at a frightened Jeremiah Smith. "Run!"

 

Jeremiah paused long enough to make sure the brain jammer was operating, then he leapt up and over the desk and sprinted out the door. 

 

A whining beam of blue light filled the room, shattering the windows. Walter clamped his hands over his ears to block out the sound. He tried to shout over the din, wanting Alex to flee, but Alex did not heed him. The blue light narrowed around the spy, shrinking to exclude Walter. It grew brighter, blending Alex's shape into the core of its brightness, forcing Walter to cover his eyes. Then the beam collapsed.

 

Walter Skinner blinked orange after-images out of his eyes and looked around the room in disbelief. Alex was gone. He spun on his heel, searching the room again. "Alex! No! Nooo!" He thought about Smith. Had they been after Smith? Had they gotten him? Walter took a last look around the empty room, then ran outside. 

 

Overhead, the ship zoomed straight up into the sky then, when it was about the size of a dime, it simply disappeared.

 

Mulder collapsed back onto the bed of the pick-up, moaning with relief. "Oh, God, my head...! What happened to me? What just happened to me?" he asked weakly.

 

Walter staggered down the steps to join Scully and Mulder. "They took Alex," he said.

 

"What about Jeremiah?" Absolom and Scully asked in unison.

 

"I don't know. He made it out of the office, I know that much. I thought he might have run outside."

 

"Do you think the aliens got him, too?" Scully wondered.

 

"There was only one light beam," Mulder said, as if that meant something, and, of course, it did, but, he realized, only to him. "There was only one transport beam," he clarified. "If Smith wasn't in that beam, they didn't get him, which means he must still be inside."

 

"The jammer must have worked, then," Walter said.

 

"Jammer?" Absolom asked.

 

"Yes," Jeremiah said as he staggered out of the infirmary door and joined his comrade. He held up the control unit. "They gave me this to hide me from the aliens, but they didn't know if it would work or not, as it was untested."

 

Absolom looked at the fibbies with new-found respect. "Hallelujah!"

 

Just then a police car barreled into the compound, seemingly aimed at the pick-up truck. Before a collision became unavoidable, it skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust. Doggett burst out of the driver's seat and shouted at them. "Raymond went crazy when the UFO showed up," he said. "I figured I better get him to Scully ASAP. I think he's OK, now, though. How's Mulder?"

 

"He's OK," Scully said, with a 'just-in-case' peek into the bed of the truck.

 

Doggett shook his head. "Dang! I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own two eyes." He looked around. "What happened? We saw the thing hover over the compound, then a beam of blue light came outta it, then whoosh! Gone!" He lifted an arm into the air, flinging up his wrist with a final flourish, as if he were a stage magician making a woman disappear from a trick box.

 

"They grabbed Alex," Walter said wearily. "I'm getting damned sick and tired of that boy disappearing on me like this."

 

"Do we know who got him?" Doggett asked.

 

"Alex said it was the Resistance Aliens," Walter said.

 

"Well! Thank God for small favors." Doggett said.

 

"Huh!" Mulder snorted from the bed of the truck. "The Resistence Aliens are the ones who grabbed me. Do you see me doing the Happy Dance?"

 

"Maybe not now. You might change your mind, once you understand what they did to you, though," Skinner said.

 

"You know what they did to me?" Mulder brayed, out-raged enough to bolt upright again.

 

"Yes, Agent Mulder, I do. Alex told me."

 

"I *knew* that bastard set me up!" Mulder roared.

 

Absolom looked alarmed. "You know for a fact that that man was working with the aliens?"

 

"Alex Krycek works for whoever pays him. He's a mercenary," Mulder said. 

 

"He's just a desperate man fighting a secret war who's accepted help from whatever quarter he could get it," Walter said, keeping Jeremiah's words about Absolom in mind. "He's been fighting the alien invasion for years, mostly on his own, and doesn't know who to trust. I don't think he really trusts the Resistance Aliens, but they've helped him in the past, so he continues to do business with them. You ought to know from personal experience how desperate a man can get when he thinks no one is listening to him," Walter said, as much for Mulder's benefit as Absolom's.

 

"Oh, that's a mistake, brother. You need to show him the error of his ways," Absolom said.

 

"Hah! That rat bastard would work with Hitler if it got him what he wanted," Mulder sniped. "They could tattoo 'free fuck' on his forehead and handcuff him naked in the lobby of an all-boy brothel and it wouldn't put him off them if he needed something only they could give him."

 

"Well, that's kind of the point, isn't it?" Skinner said. "As long as he can't get what he needs from us, he's going to use them. If we can establish a large enough coalition of people like Jeremiah, we might be able to meet his needs, so he won't have to rely on the Resistance Aliens."

 

With a final --stern-- glance at Mulder, and a penetrating look at Absolom, Skinner walked over to Doggett's car and retrieved John's megaphone. "Let's get these people into the transports and back to headquarters!" Walter roared. He was tired, and he wanted to go home. Frankly, getting Mulder back and losing Alex didn't quite seem like a fair trade.

 

#


	17. Chapter 17

#

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

#

"Half the agony of living is waiting." Alexander Rose, Memoirs of a Heterosexual

#

Helena Police Station, Helena, Montana

Monday, September, 10th

#

 

Despite the fact that Absolom's farm was out of Helena's technical jurisdiction, it *was* the state capital, and the primary site of their investigation, and the base of their operations, so it was in the Helena PD's custody that they transported and left Absolom's people --including the Bellefleur abductees-- overnight, and it was to Helena's St. Jean Hospital that they transported Mulder for observation, while they returned to their Helena motel to grab some much needed sleep. 

 

The next morning, they went to work separating the 'special' abductees from Absolom's bunch. They 'debriefed' the Bellefleur abductees, and ran identity checks and wants and warrants bulletins on Absolom's people. The only one with a record turned out to be their leader.

 

"He goes by the name 'Absalom,'" Reyes said, as she passed copies of his dossier around. "A religious zealot who escaped a shoot-out in Idaho, where he was the nominal leader of a doomsday cult who believed aliens would take over the world at the millennium. Disgraced when they didn't, he fled and tried a more ecumenical scam: credit card fraud. He used some of the money to buy the compound where we picked him up. Apparently, he has compounds scattered all over the continental United States." 

 

Walter nodded thoughtfully. "He needed the money to establish bases where he could shelter abductees for Jeremiah to heal. Situational ethics," he said. "To Absolom, the need for the compounds out-weighed the fraud he used to gain the money to buy them."

 

"Should we check out these other compounds for abductees, then?" Reyes asked. 

 

Walter rubbed his jaw. "I don't think we'll find anything other than what we found here. It may be better, in fact, if we hold off and allow Absolom to lead us to his compounds, as part of our deal to combine forces."

 

"Swell," Doggett commented sourly. "One more fruit in the gift basket."

 

"Well, we already have Jeremiah's cooperation," Skinner said. "We'll interview Absolom, see where his head is at, if he's stable enough to enlist. If he isn't, we can serve these warrants and take him out of commission. But, since these people are ostensibly his, rather than Jeremiah's, it would be better if we could try to incorporate him into our ranks. Better to use the resources he already has as pay to establish our own 'safe houses.'"

 

Doggett hummed under his breath. He didn't cotton to the notion of allying himself with nut cases. Then again, on this case, even *he* looked like a nutcase. If he hadn't had over sixty fellow officers witness the UFO he saw last night, he'd have been willing to put it down to suggestibility caused by fatigue and opt for some down time in a nice, quiet sanatarium to regain his wits and credibility. Just the thought of turning in a report of the mass sighting to Kersh made his ass cheeks tighten. He reluctantly followed Scully into the interrogation room. 

 

"You're a bad boy, Absolom," Doggett said, as he sank into a chair on the opposite side of the grey metal table the suspect was seated at. "Stealing money from little old ladies. For shame."

 

"I'm saving their lives, and the lives of their children and grandchildren, and all the generations of humans to come. Isn't that worth a few creature comforts in the here and now?" Absolom said defensively. "You know my cause is just. It is your cause as well."

 

"Yeah. Well..., still, it gives 'our cause' a bad name," Doggett said.

 

"I didn't see any radio equipment at the compound," Scully said unexpectedly. "How do you know where to find the abductees?"

 

Absalom shrugged. "I can't explain why it happens. Or how. Only where. I get these feelings. Like panic. Like...--"

 

"--static?" Scully interjected.

 

"Like doom," Absolom finished. "It leads me to the recovery sites."

 

"So, OK, would you take us through the process?" Doggett prompted.

 

"What?"

 

"Tell us step by step what how you do what you do, what you do after, the whole nine yards."

 

"Oh. Well, the ships come in, drop the abductees off all messed up. I go and get them, and eventually Jeremiah comes and heals them."

 

"He's not with you all the time, then?" Scully asked.

 

"No. He comes and goes. For his safety. For ours. The aliens are hunting him, you know. They want him dead."

 

"Yes, I do know," Scully nodded. "Jeremiah might have told you, my partner Mulder and I have run into Mr. Smith before."

 

"I remember readin' the file," Doggett said, not quite sure what he could say to get Absolom to show his true colors and let Skinner decide if they could trust him, or if they should cut him off at the knees.

 

"We've already talked to your, uh, followers," Scully said. "If they've been cured so the aliens won't ever bother them again, why don't they just go home and live out their lives?"

 

"Some have no lives to go back to. Their people thought they were lunatics, shunned and scorned them, took their children, forced them to take unnecessary medication. Others want to be with those who know, rather than maintain the charade that what happened was a false memory, or delusion. Some others hope that we will become an army and fight back. I told them that fighting is not Jeremiah's way, but they still hope. You've seen the ships. You know how dangerous the aliens are. Why are you persecuting me? You should be joining me!"

 

Doggett gave an unconscious glance to the mirror where Skinner was observing the interview. "Yeah, well, as to that...we were kind of thinking it should be the other way around. That *you* should be joining *us.*

 

Absalom looked surprised. "You do?"

 

"Yeah. And we *are* trying to find ways to fight back. So, those people of yours who want to fight? Well, they'd be welcome in *our* organization."

 

Absolom smiled. "That would be good. For them *and* for the rest of us. The ones who want to fight are...unpeaceable. Hard to control. If you took them with you, gave them a means to fight, they would be happier. The ones who want tending, who are too scared to face the world alone, could stay with me and help tend the newly recovered. It would extend my resources, having fewer people to feed, to transport, to --well, everything. I'm sure the fighters would agree." 

 

"Yeah, OK. Just, uh, there are a few things we need to know, first. You, uh, you called Jeremiah Smith your savior? What's up with that?" Doggett asked. "You don't think he's like, the second coming, do you?"

 

Absolom barked out a laugh. "No! No. The Lord is the Messiah. Jeremiah is merely an instrument of the Lord."

 

"But he can shape change, like the aliens," Scully said. "How do you explain that?"

 

"The Lord gave him the ability to shape-shift in order to protect him from the evil-doers, just as he gave me the ability to know where the aliens will dispose of their abductees."

 

"Yeah...that's quite the gift. Too bad the Lord didn't give you the heads up before the aliens picked Alex up."

 

Absolom shrugged. "I only feel the victims returning. I once was bitter that I couldn't sense the aliens before they came to steal their victims away, but Jeremiah convinced me that as we had no way of preventing them from taking their victims, that would have been too cruel a gift. The important thing was to heal them, make them unattractive to the aliens, so they would never be victimized again. I saw the wisdom of his words, and I was succored."

 

Scully nodded. "Jeremiah is...wise, that way."

 

Absolom nodded. "Indeed. Even so, God must have heard my pleas, for Jeremiah's friend Mulder *can* sense the aliens coming. Maybe, soon, He will provide a way for us to repel the aliens, and rid our world of them!"

 

"From your lips to God's ear, " Doggett said. "Uh, I'm confused about the whole returnee thing, though. I was under the impression that the aliens always released their captives at the places they'd been abducted from."

 

Absolom nodded. "That used to be so, for decades. It made my work so much easier. Jeremiah's, as well. Now.... I don't know what changed. Or why. I only know that it did. The victims changed, as well. At first, it was enough to merely find them, let them heal. But no longer. You've seen their wounds. Some died. Too many. But then, on a rescue mission, I encountered Jeremiah, who had the power to heal these newly injured abductees. Together, we saved the ones who might have otherwise died. 

 

"I predicted there would be an alien invasion at the Millennium, you know. I was right, too. They *did* come. They just didn't attack us openly, en masse, like I thought they would. I thought it would be apocalyptic. World-wide terror. Ships blackening the skies. It wasn't like that at all. They hide in their ships and abduct us in small groups. Some are returned, some aren't. But something *did* change at the Millennium. These new, mutilated bodies began to be dumped across the countryside. I had already lost my first flock by then. But these new followers, they are all abductees. They all know the truth. In a way, it's better. When people try to 'de-program' these followers, it can't be done. Because their own memories allow them to shun doubt and remain true."

 

Skinner chose that moment to come inside. "There, uh, is one more stumbling block to working with you, Absolom," Skinner said. "It's these credit card frauds. I know why you did them, and I sympathize, but we're F.B.I. We're already running operations against the aliens covertly because of pro alien sympathizers inside our own government. We can't risk exposing our operation to the wrong people right now. That means we can't afford to be lenient on someone like you, who has Federal warrants out for your arrest. If someone working for the aliens should get suspicious about why we turned a blind eye to your crimes, it could endanger our entire resistance operation. You understand why I can't allow that to happen, right? Jeremiah has agreed to cooperate with us. We'll be giving him a tour of *our* secret facilities, and I'd like your permission to tour *your* secret facilities, as a gesture of trust. I promise we'll take good care of your people. As long as they don't have criminal records, they will be allowed to remain in place, or move from compound to compound, or even leave the group, if they so desire. Can you make one more personal sacrifice for your followers, for the good of the entire human race?"

 

"But, how will you be able to find abductees without me?" Absolom said.

 

"We have our ways. It's how we were able to get here in time to catch you in the act," Walter said.

 

"I see. I-- I'd like to speak with Jeremiah, first, if I could," Absolom said.

 

"Of course," Skinner agreed at once. "I'll go get him."

 

Scully followed Skinner out the door. "Now that we've finished up here, may I go see Mulder?" she asked.

 

"Yeah, sure, Scully," Skinner agreed. "In fact, I'll e-mail Jeffrey and arrange a pick-up for Jeremiah and Mulder --heck, *all* the Bellefleur abductees who've agree to retain their alien detecting abilities-- and have Dr. Hauptmann check them out, and notify the Gunmen to get their butts on-site with sufficient supplies to outfit them all with brain jammers. You, as Mulder's primary physician, will have to sign him out for medical leave so Kersh won't jump down our throats when we show up without him, though."

 

"No problem. One photograph and Dr. Desai's affidavit would convince a hard core sadist that Mulder deserves a few days R and R," she grinned. "And if it doesn't convince Kersh, I'm sure it would convince the OPC, which is more important."

 

Skinner grinned back. In other words, if Kersh raised a stink, Scully would report his actions to the OPC boys, who would take one look at the photos and wonder what was wrong with Kersh, which is something Kersh couldn't afford to let happen this early into his Deputyship. He felt a 

sudden twinge of regret that Alex wasn't there to appreciate the ploy. Alex always did enjoy a good blackmail scheme.

 

//Oh, Alex, Alex. What the Hell have you gotten yourself into, this time?// Walter wondered.

 

# 

 

Alex unfroze on the transporter platform of the rebel's ship and looked around. One of the greys was looking decidedly unhappy with him. Alex decided to stay where he was. Presently, the first alien was joined by three others, each of whom stared at him sternly. 

 

"You were meeting with the rogue Jeremiah Smith," one of the aliens said crossly.

 

"Yeah," Alex nodded. "I was persuading him to leave the Bellefleur abductees alone. He's been on the run for so long, he hadn't realized any of you had escaped from the oiliens and had started a rebellion. I was explaining to him why he needed to not 'heal' our oilien detector humans. He agreed, by the way." 

 

"We had hoped to capture him," one of the others said. "We thought we had him in our grasp when he disappeared from our screens."

 

"Yeah," Alex grinned. "He really boogied when you guys showed up. Not that I blame him. He probably figured you were going to kill him, or something. Boy! He sure can move fast when he wants to. I thought he was going to fly when he leapt over the table the way he did. Zoom! Right out the door! Probably too fast for the others to catch, but, now that he's with the program, we shouldn't have any more problems with him undoing our work, so, no harm, no foul, right?" 

 

The aliens looked at each other and grumbled. Finally, one of them looked at Alex again.

 

"Your friend Mulder had some interesting ideas while he was in our custody. He has persuaded us to test his theories."

 

"Oh, yeah?" Alex said uneasily.

 

"Yes. Come this way."

 

Alex followed his guide to a room where a lone device sat bathed in a spotlight. It kind of reminded Alex of a cross between a scooter and a motorcycle, only without wheels. 

 

"If you would be so good as to remove your clothing, Alex the Krycek."

 

"Re-- why?"

 

"For the tests, of course. Mulder was very specific about whom he wished to test."

 

Alex blanched. "I'll just bet he was. But, you know, I'm not the guinea pig sort."

 

The alien just stared at him.

 

"Uhh...I don't suppose we could do this later, huh?" 

 

The alien crossed his arms and stared at him. Alex had the impression he'd start tapping his foot any second.

 

Alex gulped loudly. "Yeah. I didn't think so.... Listen, this isn't going to hurt, is it? 'Cause, I gotta tell you, after that incident in Russia, I'm really not keen on undergoing surgery without anesthesia."

 

"You know we disapprove of anesthetics. It interferes with our ability to make accurate records of our test subject's progress."

 

"Shit! No! I don't care what Mulder said: you can't perform any tests on me!"

 

The alien waved his arm and Alex floated into the air. He started to strip Alex's clothing off his body. 

 

"No! NO!" Alex shrieked. 

 

The alien did not relent. He guided Alex into the device. Spikes shot out, impaling Alex's ankles and both wrists, the real and the prosthetic one. There was a sudden flare of sparks as the spike breached the delicate electronics in the fake arm, and the alien quickly doused the area with a fire suppressing foam he extracted from a hidden compartment in the room. Once he considered the danger past, the alien resumed the preparations. 

 

Alex felt something slick and cold invade his rectum and bowels, then thread into his ureter. He tried to wiggle, but he was held fast. He began to cry. If he could have gotten his hands on Mulder at that very instant, Old Men and old love be damned, he would have been one very dead F.B.I. agent. Then the ceiling opened up, and the brain probes descended towards their target.

 

Outside the room, in an observatory well behind one of the walls, a group of aliens watched and probed Alex's mind. 

 

"His thoughts were totally closed to us when he came aboard, but now, he is fairly easy to read. More easy than at any other time we have had contact with him."

 

"Yes. The trauma of losing his arm was great. The fear of pain has opened his mind as nothing else we have tried."

 

"Curious. I always thought he held personal affection for Fox Mulder, but in his mind I read only hate. Instead, his mind cries out for a Walter Skinner to succor him."

 

"Humans are a fickle breed."

 

#


	18. Chapter 18

#

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

#

"Once a...being has arrived on earth, communication is the largest single factor determining what kinds of relationships he makes with others, and what happens to him in the world about him." --Virginia Slater.

#

Helena, Montana, September 11th, 2001

#

 

Jeremiah convinced Absolom to allow himself to be arrested and held in the Helena jail pending arraignment in federal court on interstate fraud charges. The rest of Absolom's people were transported back to the compound with no charges filed against them, as they were not privy to the fraud, and the compound legally belonged to their organization. The Bellefleur abductees who wanted nothing more to do with the fight against the aliens were healed, then driven home in a chartered bus.

 

Jeffery contacted Walter later that day to notify the AD that he would fly in and pick-up Jeremiah, Mulder, Billy Miles, Raymond Hoese, Gary Corey, Perry Atwater, Gina McMullin, and Theri Novata, the only Bellefleur abductees who wanted to fight, the next day, so Walter told Doggett, Reyes, and Scully that they would be staying in Helena one more night. The local PD and fibbies went home.

 

The next morning, at nine twenty-five local time, Jeffery called to tell them that his flight had been grounded, and the air port closed, which meant he would have to arrange ground transpo to pick their group up. 

 

On the heels of Jeffery's call, the local sheriff called to tell them to turn on their TVs, which is how they found out about the collapse of the World Trade Center towers, and the plane crashing into the Pentagon, and the plane crashing into a field in Pennsylvania. 

 

In an instant, no one at the F.B.I. cared whether Doggett and the rest of his team saw a UFO, a Leprechaun, or a hundred angels dancing on the head of a pin in Montana. 

 

With all air traffic grounded indefinitely, Richie Szalay offered to drive them to Jeffery in his RV, as he was determined not to lose track of his friend Gary, again, and he did owe Skinner for paying the impound fees on the vehicle. They accepted, and called Jeffery to stand by and wait for them to get to him. Before they left, they received a call from two of the Bellefleur abductees who had already been healed. They had seen the Twin Towers go down, and had decided they wanted to fight the secret war, after all. Jeremiah agreed to schedule a 'follow up' healing with them when he had fulfilled his obligations to Dr. Hauptmann. 

 

Once they saw their charges off, Walter Skinner, Doggett, Reyes, and Scully rented a nine seater mini bus and headed back to D.C. They stuffed their gear in the back, piled the second and third row seats with blankets so the next slated driver/navigator team could stretch out and sleep, and drove non-stop. They arrived in Washington, D.C. early in the a.m. on Thursday, September 13th,

went home to freshen up, and arrived at their scheduled work times at F.B.I. H.Q. to discover a radical organizational restructuring taking place there and in every other intelligence and enforcement agency in town. 

 

Skinner lost hundreds of CID agents to the F.B.I.'s National Security Division, only to have those same agents transferred almost immediately into the newly formed Office of Homeland Security. 

 

With Mulder safely back in the bosom of terrestrial kind, Scully's first action upon reaching the Hoover was to go up to Personnel and file for maternity leave. When the request hit Kersh's desk, he signed off immediately, which left Doggett and Reyes manning the X-files department on their own until Mulder received his official reinstatement two weeks after he return from 'sick leave.' In the meantime, they felt as if they had been forgotten by everyone in the Bureau but Chesty Short, the accountant who had the power to --and did-- cut their operating budget to the bone. 

 

It was only the memory of the abductees and the UFO that kept Doggett in the X-files department when what he really wanted to do was go kick terrorist butt. Only the knowledge that there was a greater war looming a mere fifteen years in the future bolstered his determination to keep the X-Files up and running in order to ensure his government wasn't caught napping when the alien invasion fleet finally arrived.

 

Mulder, Perry Atwater, and Jeremiah Smith came to D.C. September 28th, where, over lunch at Casey;'s bar and grill, they passed on the latest news from Gibson's lair and Absolom's many compounds to Skinner, Doggett, and Reyes. Chief of which was Raymond Hoese's return to Bellefleur. Raymond, as the sole remaining law officer in town, had taken over the empty sheriff's seat. Raymond could now patrol his region of Oregon for aliens at will, while still enjoying the comforts of a normal home life with his wife and son. Gary Corey and Richie Szalay were heading back to patrol Idaho, Montana, and Washington state in Richie's RV, Richie having taken alien fighting training and plam and jammer and alien toxic-goo-proof gas mask building courses from the Gunmen at Absolom's Virginia compound, along with the other detectors and abductee-wannabe-fighters. Billy Miles, having discovered that his father had been found dead in the trunk of his patrol car, opted to command Absolom's Virginia compound, which was not the human resistance's 'boot camp,' and he and the Gunmen were training the newly arrived abductees who wanted to fight the aliens as protectors for the detector humans. Gina McMullin and Theri Novata were there, too, waiting for their own hand-picked protector trainees 'graduated' boot camp. From there they were slated to start patrolling Arizona and California, respectively.

 

Jeremiah was also on his way to Bellefleur, to reverse the 'healing' on the two Bellefleur abductees who'd had a change of heart. From there, he was going to track down all the Resistence altered humans he had previously healed and give them the option of remaining healed or in restoring their abilities to detect aliens, and Perry Atwater was travelling with Jeremiah as *his* protector, in case the humans who took Jeremiah up on his offer decided to take their frustrations out on the nearest alien, no matter how helpful he'd been to them, or whose side he was on. Eve Harlow was also slated to join them, as the human resistance's recruiter/field commander. Since the first batch of detector/protectors had been assigned to Absolom's camps in order to serve as both protection and liaisons between the respective groups, it was Eve's job to fill in the holes in the U.S. human detector grid as they were found and trained.

 

Since the Resistance Aliens were continuing to abduct people world-wide and change them into oilien detectors, Eve was authorized to go wherever the detectors were returned and ask them whether they wanted to be healed or trained to join the human resistance movement against alien colonization. but.

 

MUFON continued tracking UFO movements worldwide, and, with the Gunmen's persuasion, became another secret arm of the human resistance.

 

Mulder finished up by reporting that, with a little training with Gibson Praise, all the human detectors were able to pick up the ability to discern shape-shifters as well as oiliens, and were able to master all of Gibson's telepathic and thought shielding capabilities, as well. And, by utilizing the Laubach Literary Training's motto of: 'Each one teach one,' the first batch of 'graduates' each passed on their skills to any available untrained detectors, which enabled the human resistance's members to increase the number of detectors with Gibson's skills geometrically, without putting Gibson, or his whereabouts in further jeopardy. 

 

Walter Skinner, in Alex's absence, at least, in his own mind, was the leader pro tem of the human resistance, and he greeted each new bit of intelligence with satisfaction, and plans to expand and organize. Doggett and Reyes, being foot soldiers, were happy to get the good news, but were unconcerned with the overall strategies involved, so they left the restaurant to go back to work as soon as they were up-dated. 

 

Once Skinner and Smith worked out their strategies for the next batch of detectors, Jeremiah and Perry went on their way, leaving Mulder, who was coming into the Hoover to get recertified for duty, behind with Skinner. 

 

As soon as Jeremiah was out of ear-shot, Mulder turned on Skinner and said: "You're fucking Krycek?"

 

"Not that it's any of your business, but, yes, I am. So did you, once upon a time."

 

"That was before I knew what a rat bastard he was."

 

"Yeah, well, one man's rat bastard is another man's unsung hero."

 

"If Kersh finds out--"

 

"--Kersh has more and better things to worry about right now, than who I'm fucking on my own time --especially since I haven't been fucking anybody since Alex was abducted."

 

"How can you fuck the man who infected you with those nanocytes?"

 

Skinner smiled. "I just think of it as Alex's idea of foreplay. Bottom line, it was necessary. So, you asked and I told, is it too much to hope that you won't tattle?" Skinner wondered, "'cause that particular sword cuts both ways. Do you think the Cause can afford to lose both of us?"

 

Mulder frowned. "Not at the moment, no, sir."

 

"Then I think we both have better things to do, Agent Mulder."

 

And that's how they left things, until the middle of October, when Doggett and Mulder were caught on an oil rig with a bunch of oilien possessees. Doggett reluctantly, but faithfully, followed Mulder's lead, which enabled them to discover and rescue three of the crew who hadn't been possessed, but also forced them to blow the rig up in order to kill the oiliens, and since oil supply was even more vital with the country on alert, Kersh hit the roof and fired Mulder on the spot. 

 

Surprisingly, Mulder took the firing well. In fact, he took advantage of his sudden free time to round up the Indio oil rig survivors from their precautionary hospital stay and, with Scully in tow, drove them back to their homes. On the way, he told the men all about the oiliens, and the planned invasion, and got their permission for Scully to take blood and tissue samples from them and their family members, so they could study their natural immunity to possession, and see how many of their bloodline had that native resistance in their genes. 

 

Scully turned the samples over to Dr. Cesare Farouk, a genetic virologist recommended by Dr. Hauptmann, vetted by Gibson, and financed by the trust fund Jimmy Bond had set up for their research. Farouk tested and compared their natural resistence to possession with Mulder's vaccine acquired resistance. Between the two kinds of resistence, Farouk was positive he could concoct a virus that would spread the resistance to 95% of the people exposed to it. 

 

Mulder contacted the Gunmen, at that point, and they devoted their considerable brainpower to developing a safe and thorough means of dispersing the virus worldwide, while Scully went back to Baltimore, where she put Skinner, Doggett, and Reyes to work on their free days, assembling her nursery.

 

Upon his return to D.C. in November, his newly restored talents under complete control, a budding corps of freedom fighters behind him, and resistance technology progressing on all fronts, Mulder decided to take the next step and sweep the current administration for oilien possessees, shape-shifting 'changlings,' human collaborators, and their sympathizers and stooges. He did this by coercing his old friend, Senator Matheson, into hiring him on as a personal staff member, and using his new-found access to the halls of government to meet, greet, and clear or condemn everyone in the White House from the President on down to the lowliest intern. 

 

Once he had screened the residents of the White House, he had Matheson arrange a meeting for them with the President, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, and one unsuspecting colonist shape-shifter. He presented his evidence, and followed it up with a little demonstration that introduced the base of the imposter's neck to a deployed plam spike. After the alien dissolved into a puddle of toxic green goo, Mulder found that resistance to his assertion that there were aliens among them crumbled with amazing alacrity.

 

Once Mulder made believers of the Executive Branch, it was easy to arrange for a group of sensitives to move into the White House in order to keep it an oilien, shape-shifter, and collaborator free zone. 

 

Luckily for the stability of the U. S. government, only a few key people had been replaced, and none had been possessed by oiliens. Most of the people who were dirty were unwitting sympathizers, like Kersh, rather than out-and-out collaborators like Spender.

 

As far as the public was concerned, there was a sudden spate of congressional, corporate, and lobbyist retirements due to 'health' concerns, a few 'mysterious disappearances,' the odd 'fatal accident,' and a slew of ignominious firings and scandalous arrests. Secretly, a select few found themselves under lock and key in a secure civilian facility where no amount of worldly influence, power, money, or vows of secrecy could sway their jailors into setting them free, or exempt them from interrogations where they were expected to confess all.

 

One unexpected outcome of the screenings was the discovery of a number of 'super-soldiers' seeded throughout the various intelligence agencies. None were in administrative positions, as super soldiers were not chosen for their vast intelligence, but it stirred up enough of a hornet's nest that it forced their progenitors out of hiding. As one of the actual soldiers, a former friend of Doggett's, confided to that agent, they were the U.S. government's attempt to create beings as powerful and hard to kill as the alien shape-changers, but they had a predilection for going rogue, which had added yet another faction to the secret war, the statistics on which were damning enough for the architects and scientists of the program to be cashiered out of their respective military branches and grant funded laboratories, and for every facility they had used to convert people to be shut down, while their congressional backers got a hiding on the Oval Office's carpet.

 

Luckily, the super soldiers, while almost impossible to kill, were easily detected, both visually, and mentally, as they had no defenses against Mulder and his ilk, so their ultimate loyalties (and propensity to go rogue), were easily discerned. Unfortunately, if those loyalties were to people or places other than those duly elected or inhabited by the citizens of the United States, they were also unstoppable. Another problem for the Gunmen to ponder and attempt to solve, and they were only the tip of the unofficial ice berg, the government itself had its own think tank egg heads at work on the problem. 

 

In the meanwhile, Mulder's alien seeking exploits were leaked --very discreetly-- to sympathetic governments around the globe, who, just as discreetly, invited him and a select crew of like human detectors to come cull their respective governments of alien influences. Soon, the Canadians, the Mexicans, the British, the Germans, and all four Scandinavian countries were given a clean bill of health, and furnished with their own little army of detector/bodyguard pairs to make sure they stayed that way. 

 

Mulder took advantage of his new-found popularity to head the delegation to Scandinavia himself. After doing his duty, he slipped into Leningrad via Finnish ferryboat and hunted for Project Gregor documents, (which was made infinitely easier by his ability to read minds). He also used his abilities to access their military database and print out a hard copy picture of Alex's alleged brother, Vassily Arntsen, which was reason enough to fly back to D.C. in high spirits. As several cultish types had been nosing about, taking an inordinate interest in the baby's birth, Mulder settled into Scully's apartment in order to protect her during her last weeks of pregnancy. 

 

With Scully's nest well feathered, Skinner was able to spend his free time moving the contents of Alex's storage unit --sans Alex's emergency stash-- to his Virginia cabin, and to contract the installation of running water, electricity, and a scalloped, white picket fence to the property.

 

Although Alex had given Walter the protocols for contacting the Resistance Aliens, he had opted not to use them, as he already knew, from Mulder's case, that they would not turn Alex loose until they were good and ready. That meant he had no way of knowing how Alex was holding up. All Walter could do was pray that Alex would be released soon and none the worse for wear. That, and drown his sorrows by putting in long nights at work, which did, at least, keep his visits to his too empty apartment to a minimum.

 

#

 

Alex twitched in his 'chair.' He hadn't moved from it since they'd forced him into it, however long ago that was --time was meaningless to him. He knew they were stimulating his muscles, keeping him as fit as one could when one was immobilized for extensive periods, but the systematic twitchings made him itchy, and he had no way of scratching anything. Admittedly, he felt better physically than after his stint in Forj Sidi Toui, but, mentally, he knew he was losing it. He had begun hallucinating for long periods of time, and, when he 'came back' to himself, he was frequently confused as to where he was. He would inevitably try to stand up, and then the horror would come rushing back to him, as fresh as the day it happened.

 

He had fleeting thoughts of Hriitohep, the little fetus that had survived being frozen in liquid nitrogen for fifty years while human scientists carved bits of him off, over and over again as he regenerated them. The aliens had been outraged about Hriitohep's situation, and yet, to his mind, this was worse. He was pretty sure the doctor's hadn't known Hriitohep was alive and feeling pain. The aliens knew he was alive and in pain. Humans were really nothing to them, no higher a life form than ants. It was wrong. If he hadn't needed them, he would have taken extreme pleasure in killing each and every one of them slowly and very, very thoroughly. Of course, he was unfortunately aware that they thought the same about him. 

 

..That's the problem,// he thought to himself in one of his more lucid moments. //We need to start thinking win/win, not if-your-side-happens-to-win-when-my-side-wins-so-be-it.//

 

He was reasonably sure that they were conducting those experiments they had mentioned to him previously, the ones they needed an ex-oilien infected host for, even though he had expressly forbid it. They had no respect for him, for any human, he was pretty sure. But especially him. //Oh, God! I want to kill them all! Stupid aliens!//

 

They had explained to him about Mulder's ideas. Alex had figured out immediately that it was nothing more than pay-back. He had tried to convince them of that, but they had insisted it was a good idea. For that 'good idea' they had repeatedly invaded his brain, snipping, injecting, and just plain messing around. They'd injected him with serums that left him in screaming agony, and then they waited and watched him for a few days, to see it anything developed. The outcome was inevitably negative, so they'd start all over again, coming in from a different angle. They started with his nasal cavity, then through his soft palate, next through his eyes, his ears, the base of his skull, the top of his head, then through his temples.

 

That's when they seemed to change tactics. Maybe they had given up on Mulder's crazy idea, but they still had him, so, he seemed to think they thought: why not do what *we* want to do? That's when they stopped injecting his brain alone, and started in on his other vital organs. They didn't neglect his brain, they just included a liver or kidney, or spleen, or marrow bone. Always something to do with the blood, he noticed. Either cleaning it or manufacturing it. And always with some kind of brain connection. 

 

He was so tired. He became aware that his mental blocks were gone a few days into the experimentation --as if they had been erased, and that's when their natural superiority started. //They lost all respect of me when the shields failed,// Alex concluded. So he began to try to stave off insanity and regain his lost status by focusing his mind and rebuilding his shields. In his mind, he pictured a foundation with a plumb line and rebar, and a nice fat pile of red brick and a big vat of mortar. He was a mason, and he was building a wall, brick by brick. Actually, the way he was circling around, it seemed to be a brick igloo. He planned to build it, climb inside, and use the last of the bricks and mortar to seal himself inside. He needed a rest from those crazy aliens, and that seemed the best way to get it.

 

And speak of the devil --here came one now. Alex abandoned his wall building to concentrate his thoughts on the alien. "When are you going to turn me loose?" he asked. He couldn't communicate telepathically, however many times they had tried to make him. "I tell you one thing, buddy: once you're done with me, you leave me naked out in some field in Bum Fuck Idaho, and I will personally shoot your ship down and plam your brains out. You hear me! Where I go, my clothes go --and that goes double for my leather jacket! Walter gave me that jacket. Walter...." Alex stopped speaking. 

 

Thoughts of Walter always made him sad. Thoughts of Mulder always made him mad, these days. It was getting to where he wanted Mulder as dead as he wanted the aliens. Only, that was a bad thing. He couldn't remember why, exactly, but he knew it was so. The old men had plans for Mulder. He wished he knew what they were. If he only knew *why* the bastard was so important to them.... //Then what?// he wondered. It was so hard to think coherently. They were scrambling his brains, that's what they were doing. //Scrambled brains on toast.// He eaten that, once. He laughed. "Yeah. Is that what you want? You want to eat me brains on toast? You lousy bastards!" 

 

He suddenly wondered if Walter would take care of him if he came back...without his brains? Brainless and toothless, no doubt, like some big, fat, untoilet-trained baby. Would Walter dump him in some institution? Or maybe just shoot him and put him out of his misery? Not that he'd necessarily know he was miserable. That character from that book, "Flowers for Algernon," Charlie, the retard, he didn't know he was miserable. That was the good thing about being one of the dregs of society: the ones who were the worse off never knew it. That's what the author posited, in any case. They were either too stupid to grasp the situation, or too brain dead. In a coma. Or walking brain dead. Or drugged brain dead. Lights were on, but nobody was home. Yup. That's what he was going to be, soon, the slime at the bottom of the wash bucket. //Wonder which variety of brain dead I am?// He thought to ask the alien, but, when he looked up, the alien was gone. 

 

//That's OK,// he thought, and went back to building his wall.

 

#

 

//So, here I am, hiding out somewhere in the wilds of New Mexico, like a common thug,// Spender thought. Well, to be precise, he was in White Sands, very near Holloman Air Force Base, the U.S.'s missile testing facility. He didn't know if it was the smartest place for him to have taken a cadre of shape-shifting, mind-reading aliens, but the accommodations were a heck of a lot roomier than his cabin in Canada. And it gave him access to all sorts of interesting minds. That made it the perfect place for him to practice *his* mind reading, since all those military secrets kept him as abreast of the political world as if he were in his Watergate Arms apartment in Washington, D.C. Information that would otherwise have been privy only to the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the President, himself, like, for instance, this business about gearing up to fight a war in Iraq. Astounding that that had been the President's initial reaction to the terrorist plane hijackings of September 11th. 

 

//Colossal idiot,// Spender thought. He wished it were possible to alter time so that it was *this* President who was in office when the alien fleet arrived and began their invasion. He could think of no one more worthy of losing the country to an enemy force than the one whose mental gymnastics could add up nineteen Saudi Arabians with one Al Qaida terrorist living in Afghanistan and came up with Iraq. "Gods above! It would have been like taking candy from a moron," he said to Nurse Greta. 

 

'Nurse Greta' was of the opinion that it would be very like that no matter *who* was President, but 'she' didn't deign to say so. 

 

"We must find the perfect place for dear Alex. It would be interesting to find out why he is so hard to read." It would be interesting to know if that were a genetic advantage or disadvantage. Of course, at the moment, Spender felt the equal of any shape-shifter, despite his physical vulnerability to their blood, his lack of strength, and his inability to morph his shape. But, seeing as how being *their* equal was equivalent to being equal to the slave, not the master, Spender had delusions of rising above them and becoming equal to the oiliens. He just needed to understand what that entailed. In order to do that, he decided he needed to pick an oilien 'brain', for lack of a better term. Too bad the alien from the foo fighter had escaped the silo in North Dakota. He would have been the perfect test subject. One that would not have been missed, since he was already missing in action. Or had been, until his escape. But never mind. There were more oil slicks in the sea. Spender laughed at his witticism. 

 

"Yes, we must really find a safe place for Alex. Someplace he would never be found. Alex had dispensed with Spender too lightly, and in haste. He would not deal with Alex quite so swiftly. 

 

Not that he would have dared to take revenge on the dear boy, if it had been *he* who had seized the reins of power, but Alex had allowed Marita to take control of the project. Since it wouldn't do for the aliens to delve too deeply into the Consortium's business, he could not seek his revenge on Marita, yet, but Alex was another matter. He had clearly thrown his lot in with the resistance, and that was an act that had to be punished. All the better if he could use it to advance the Colonist's agenda. That would take some thought, though. Some careful thought. Not that it mattered. He had time. All the time in the world. He rubbed his hands together gleefully.

 

#


	19. Chapter 19

#

CHAPTER NINETEEN

#

"I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I ended up where I intended to be." --Douglas Adams

#

Accident site, three miles east of Sperryville, Virginia, along Highway 211 

4 pm, December 24th, 2001

#

 

Alex Krycek was cold. 

 

He remembered thinking //I'm cold// right before the terrible noise. Then something hit him on the head. Actually, a few little somethings. In fact, as he listened, things little and not so little were landing all around him. 

 

An instinctive need to protect himself from some unknown assault made him try to protect his head by throwing his arms above his head. The strange thing of it was: it worked. He could feel his arms move. and even if the prosthetic fell a bit short of actually attaining its target, namely, the top of his head, it at least moved. 

 

//That's odd,// he thought. He could remember that, for the longest time, he had not been able to move. Not to scratch, not to wince, not to hide. And he had never been cold, either. This prompted him to experiment further. He sat up. The little somethings fell into his lap. He opened his eyes. at first, he didn't see anything. Then he remembered the bricks. //Oh, yes.// Mentally, he tore down the bricks sealing the doorway to his little mental igloo. And that did it. He could see. He could see that there were several miniature Coleman lanterns about an inch and a half high, in his lap. They were the proper Coleman Green color, only they had a key chain ring attached to their caps which, in a real lantern, would have sheltered the lamp flame from the wind. The chain and ring were shiny metal, the rest was plastic, and there was a little wheat-type bulb inside the lantern's 'hurricane glass.' 

 

The lanterns themselves were cute, but the fact that they had landed on his head out of the blue was decidedly odd. So he looked around. Which is when he noticed he was outside. The sun was going down behind him, casting the loamy slope upon which he sat into ever-lengthening shadow. 

 

There were lots of shrubs, and dry, yellow grass, and gravel, and patches of what looked to be snow. Thin, tiny patches, as if it had snowed a while ago, but not much, and not for long, so that the sun had melted all but the barest, shadow-sheltered wisps of it away. And...hardware. As if the contents of a do-it-yourself store had vomited on the ground casting miscellaneous and random bits of partly digested hardware on top of him. And novelty key chain lights.

 

//Well,// he thought thankfully as he accessed the size and weight of some of the rest of the debris, //Better the key chain lights than some of this other stuff.// He doubted if he'd have woken up after being beaned by a socket wrench, or something bigger and heavier. Nothing else was landing on him, though, so he decided the shit storm was over. Which meant he was free to examine the little lanterns in depth. If it had a bulb, maybe it lit up, somehow?

 

Intrigued, Alex fiddled with the thing, which was a bit hard to do, as he couldn't seem to get his prosthetic hand to work. He actually crushed one of the lights before he finally put the lantern in his mouth and twisted the lamp's base until it lit up. It was a pitiful little light, very small and yellow, rendering it practically useless as a means of guiding him around in the dark. Still, it looked so cute shining in his palm he couldn't help but smile. Maybe if he had more lights...?

 

He looked around, searching for more of the key chain lights, and was rewarded. All around him, on the ground, were little miniature Coleman lanterns. Red ones, yellow ones, and, of course, Coleman Green ones. He scooped them up and turned them on, dangling them from his fake fingers in threes and fours. Even with a fistful of them crowding his fingers, they didn't provide as much light as one decent penlight, so he stopped turning them on. They reminded him of a song he'd heard as a child, when his 'sister' Irene practiced piano, so he sang it. 

 

"White floral bells upon a slender stalk, lilies of the valley deck my garden walk. Oh, don't you wish that you could hear them ring, that will only happen when the fairies sing, that will only happen when the fairies sing." Fairy lights. That's what they reminded him of. 

 

Having solved that mystery, Alex stood up. It was still cold, and due to get colder after the sun set. He had to find shelter. He decided the best course was to follow the trail of debris, since there was no sign of a road anywhere on either side of the slope, nor downward from it. As he climbed the slope, he found the box out of which all the little lights must have been tossed. Fully half the contents were heaped at the mouth of the box. 

 

Alex righted the box, tossed in the handful of lights he had picked up but hadn't turned on into it, and scooped in the other fallen lights, then he picked the box up and took it with him. Later on, he would admit to himself that that had been a singularly odd thing to do, but, at the time, he had not thought to question his own actions.

 

The box itself was, as one would expect, in less than pristine condition, but it was still worthy of the label 'box,' despite breaking open and spilling its contents down the slope. As he climbed further up, he encountered more and more boxes in similar states of distress tumbled along the slope, so he followed them. There weren't any more boxes filled with mini Coleman lanterns, but there were boxes of fuses and coils of wire, and wrenches, and lethal looking vices and anvils and other massive, though unidentifiable, pieces of hardware he was glad hadn't landed on his head.

 

Finally, he reached the top of the slope, where the source of the goods, a Home Depot semi-tractor-trailer truck, had hit a patch of black ice, skidded, jack-knifed, and over-turned. Its back doors had burst open on impact, spewing the contents of the trailer along the side of the road, and down the slope to where Alex had been laying. 

 

It occurred to Alex at that very moment that he did not know where he was, or how he had come to awaken in a field along the side of the highway. Since the driver of the truck was just climbing out of the cab, looking pretty shaken up after his near-death experience, Alex decided he would

ask him. So he did.

 

"Uh, excuse me, but could you tell me where I am?"

 

The driver made a little jump into the air and came down facing Alex, his jaw agape. The man who had come out of nowhere had terrible scars on his face, and he had tucked a box filled with little key chain lights under his arm, while the fingers of his other hand were festooned with lit mini-lanterns. The driver turned this way and that, searching for the vehicle from whence his apparition had emerged, but did not see one. "Where'd you come from?" 

 

Alex thought about it for awhile. "Montana," he said. "Last thing I remember it was September 9th, and I was in Helena, Montana."

 

"Shit!" The driver said, still staring. He rotated his head carefully and probed the nape of his neck with his fingers, kneading out the kinks caused by the accident. "You don't remember anything after that? Not a thing?"

 

Alex shook his head. "No. why?"

 

"Hell's Bells, boy, it's December 24th. And this is Virginia."

 

Alex rocked back on his heels. "Really?"

 

"No need to take my word for it, there's a highway marker over yonder." He pointed. "We're on the shoulder of Highway 211, about three miles east of Sperryville."

 

Alex followed the driver's finger with his eyes and found the indicated sign. Sure enough, he could just make out the lettering proclaiming the road's identity in the last rays of sun light. "Shit!" He looked around for some way he could have gotten there, like a car, but, like the truck driver before him, he didn't find one. "...I don't know how I got here," he confessed. 

 

"Yeah, well, don't sweat it. I called the Highway Patrol, already. They're on their way. Probably bringing the paramedics, too, just in case. Just hang tight. I'm sure they'll give you a ride to the hospital. You can sort things out in a warm bed."

 

Alex frowned. He didn't know why, but he didn't care for the thought of going to a hospital. "You called the Highway Patrol? On your CB?"

 

"Naw. My cell phone."

 

Alex perked up. "Could I borrow it to call a friend of mine? He ought to be in D.C."

 

"Sure thing." The driver handed his phone over.

 

Alex had to set down the box of lanterns in order to strip his fake fingers of key chains so that he could put the phone in his fake palm and punch in the number with his real hand, and then it took him a few seconds to remember the number, but he eventually got the call made.

 

"Skinner, here." Walter's baritone growled over the connection.

 

"Oh, Walter, good! It's you! I was afraid I'd forgotten the number."

 

"Alex!" Walter shouted so loudly, Alex had to pull the phone away from his ear. "Thank God! Where are you?"

 

"Three miles east of Sperryville, on Highway 211."

 

"There isn't anything three miles east of Sperryville," Walter said confidently, since he had to take Highway 211 to reach his cabin he was fairly familiar with the area.

 

"Well, there's a road, and there's a roadside. I'm standing on the eastbound lane of the Highway with, uh, --what's your name?-- Homer DelRoy," Alex passed along.

 

"Who the Hell is Homer DelRoy?"

 

"He a truck driver. He had an accident. The Highway Patrol is on its way. Paramedics, too. Walter? I...I don't know how I got here. Homer says they'll probably take me to the local hospital. I don't want to go to the hospital, Walter. Could you come pick me up?"

 

"Alex, if you don't remember how you got there, I think you'd better go to the hospital and let them check you out. I'll pick you up there. Besides, you can't very well stand by the side of the road for three hours, you'd freeze your ass off."

 

"I can always think warm thoughts."

 

"You're going to the hospital, and that's an order!"

 

"Yes, sir!"

 

"Alex, it's Christmas Eve. How about, instead of going back to D.C., we spend the holiday at my cabin?"

 

"I thought you didn't want me to freeze to death?"

 

Walter laughed. Alex didn't know about all the renovations he'd made during his absence. "Don't sweat it, Kiddo, the place is a little better supplied than when you were there last. The larder is a little bare, though, so, you want me to pick you up anything special on the way?"

 

"Oh, yeah. I can't remember when I ate last. I could go for a Hawaiian pie and some dark chocolate-- and a thermos of hot cocoa. I could *really* use something hot to drink. And bring along some of those frozen battered fish fillets, and some lettuce, tomatoes, taco sauce, corn tortillas, and cooking oil; I'm in the mood for fish tacos. Oh, and some popcorn and cranberries." 

 

"I thought fish tacos were made with cabbage and tartar sauce?"

 

"Yeah, but I'm in the mood for lettuce, tomatoes, and hot sauce."

 

Walter smiled. "OK, Val."

 

"Hold on." Alex stuffed the phone under his arm and patted himself down. "Besides a couple changes of clothes, I'll need my spare wallet and ID and some cash, and, uh...., if you don't mind, my back-up hardware. You know?"

 

"I know. Will do. Remember, now, you're to wait for me at the hospital, OK?" Alex grunted assent. "I'll get packed and get on the road ASAP."

 

"Thanks, Walter." Alex handed the phone back to Homer. "Thanks a lot, Homer. You know, I don't know what I would have done if I'd woken up and you hadn't been here.... There's not much traffic on this road, and I couldn't see the road from down there, anyway. I might have wandered off into the woods and froze to death if these little lantern thingies hadn't hit me on the head. In fact, I might not have woken up at all if they hadn't landed on my head. I think your having an accident saved my life," Alex said.

 

"Geez, really? Man, I guess it's true: God *does* work in mysterious ways." Homer still felt bad about the wreck, but he did garner a certain amount of comfort in knowing that his misfortune had saved somebody's life. 

 

"Yeah." Alex sat on the ground and cradled the crumpled box, running his hand through the little pile of lit lanterns that were now glowing cheerily in the box along with their unlit fellows. "These are the cutest damned things. They'd be perfect Christmas lights for Walt's cabin --he doesn't have electricity up there...you wouldn't happen to know how much they cost, do you?"

 

"Yeah, I do. That many of them would pauper Donald Trump!" Homer laughed. "Don't worry about paying for 'em. The company'll write them off as lost or damaged goods. No harm, no foul." 

 

"Really? You're sure?" 

 

"Yeah.... Merry Christmas, Alex."

 

"Thanks, Homer." They shook hands, then settled in to wait for the Highway Patrol. 

 

#

 

Walter showed up at the hospital two hours later, to find Alex huddled on an emergency waiting room chair clutching a box of key chain lights and staring at the entrance. As soon as he crossed the threshold, Alex jumped up, ready to go. Walter insisted on talking to the doctor who had seen Alex, first, but, satisfied that there was nothing wrong with Alex that a little TLC and some pain meds couldn't fix, he gladly escorted Alex back to his SUV. 

 

"OK, Alex, you're out of the hospital. No one's going to toss you into 'B' ward. Do you really have amnesia?" Walter asked as he headed out of the parking lot.

 

"No. I was kind of out of it when I called you, and I was pretty amazed to find out I'd been gone almost four months, but a couple hours cooling my heels in the waiting room pretty much cleared out the abductee fog."

 

"That's good to know. That means you have a good reason for clutching that box of key chains like it's a life preserver, huh?"

 

"They're a gift from Homer. See, a few of them hit me on the head...," Alex launched into a narrative of his awakening. "I figured, if I rebuilt the wall, they'd have to let me go. I guess it worked, huh? *And* they returned me *with* all my clothes! I guess they took my threat seriously, too. Anyway, about the keychains ... I told Homer they'd be great to use as Christmas tree lights, since your cabin doesn't have electricity, and I asked if I could buy them, and Homer said, 'naw, just take 'em.' So I did. Which reminds me, you brought my wallet and funds, right? 'Cause Homer says there's a Home Depot on the way back to the Highway, and I want to stop and buy a tree."

 

"We don't need to *buy* a tree, Alex. My property is full of trees." 

 

"I want a Home Depot tree!" Alex whined. "C'mon, Walt! The Home Depot guy saved my life! The least we can do is buy one of his lousy trees."

 

"You make them sound so appealing," Walter said snidely, refraining from mentioning that the truck driver probably didn't even know the people who ran the local Home Depot, except as customers who took his deliveries. 

 

"Pleee-ase!" Alex pleaded. "It'll be our first Christmas together! A tree and these lights --it'll be so beautiful! You'll thank me, later."

 

Walt sighed. "If we're spending good money on a tree we don't need to buy, it better be *you* who thanks *me* later --really, really, nicely."

 

"Sure, Bear. Whatever you want."

 

Walter's ears perked up. "Really? OK. We'll stop and buy a tree."

 

Alex grinned, too happy to be suspicious about the speed with which the usually 'thrifty' Walter had capitulated to the needless expense. "Swell! Where's the hot cocoa? I'm thirsty."

 

Walter snorted, but pulled up the thermos of hot cocoa for Alex, who guzzled it straight from the bottle, since he knew Walter wasn't particularly fond of hot chocolate. "Where's the pie?"

 

"In the back. It's long cold, so I figured we'd heat it up in the fireplace oven and eat it hot."

 

"Ooh, yeah. Good idea," Alex approved. One of the great feature's of Walter's cabin fireplace was an alcove above the andirons where one could bake bread --and pizza. There was also a suspension swing in the fireplace wall where they could hang a pot, or load a rotisserie spit, as well as a little inside shelf where they could keep a kettle hot.

 

"I'm glad you think so. Would now be a good time to tell you that I had propane *and* electricity installed in the cabin when I decided to install that electric well pump I've been talking about for the last year or so?"

 

Alex's eyes rounded. "You did?" He looked down at his unnecessary box of mini lanterns.

 

Walter smiled. "It's OK, Val. It *is* Christmas Eve. Who knows if we can even find a string of lights this late in the game? Hell! Even if we do, we'll use the little lanterns, anyway, OK? Just because you thought enough of our first Christmas together to make sure we had safe lights for our first tree."

 

Alex smiled back at Walter. This was the reason he loved this man. "Thanks, Vlad." His mind make a little short circuit. //Did I just think the 'L' word?// he wondered. He thought back. //Oh, yeah. I'm in deep shit.//

 

Walter frowned as Alex got a strangely stiff look on his face, as if he'd just crapped his pants. "What's wrong?"

 

"Huh? Nothing! That is, uh,...just wondering..., uh, what else you've done to the cabin?"

 

"Ah." Walter hummed. "Well, I redecorated--"

 

Alex snorted. "What! No more antler chandeliers and moose head over the mantlepiece?"

 

"Well..., as a matter of fact, I *did* take *one* antler chandelier down, the one in the den, and I moved out all of the Early American furniture you sneered at --except for the dining set...which now has an antler chandelier hanging over it."

 

Alex snickered.

 

"Ahem! I changed out the living room furniture for Mission style, with Navajo blankets for Afghans, and I think the den is Mediterranean, No more ruffles and autumn leaf patterns or 'frou-frou knurls.' And we now have a glider on the front porch *and* the deck, and a new chest freezer, although it's empty, of course, and one of those built-in, 'everything *including* the kitchen sink,' steel drum type, three tiered barbeques with a built in smoker big enough to hold a quarter of beef, plus veggies, burgers and buns."

 

"Ooh! Awesome! I can't wait to fire that puppy up!" Alex enthused.

 

Walter grinned. "It *is* one sweet rig. Oh, and, uh, I had all the windows replaced with double glazed, bullet-proof panes with steel shutters, and all the screen doors with security doors, and we now have a Lone Gunman approved home security and perimeter system --although it only works when the power is on."

 

Alex sobered. "Expecting a fire fight?" 

 

"To be honest, Alex, I'm not sure. A lot of things have happened while you were gone." 

 

"Homer told me about 9-11, " Alex said. "Damn it, Walt! I've been risking life and limb for five years and it's like the whole world suddenly decided to save the aliens the bother of enslaving us by self-destructing! I keep thinking about those hostages who brought their plane down before it could be used by the terrorists... Your condo is only a half mile from the Pentagon! If they'd miscalculated their trajectory, or *their* passengers had brought *that* plane down before it could hit their target, or they had decided the F.B.I building was as good a target as the Pentagon.... Crap!"

 

"But they didn't, and I'm fine," Walter said, patting Alex's hand reassuringly. "There are other, more immediate threats you need to know about. Like the super soldiers." Walter went on to describe the super soldier project, and how many of them were suspected of going rogue, and how many of them had taken an interest in Scully and her unborn baby.

 

"As we speak, Scully and Monica Reyes are hiding out in some undisclosed location hoping to elude a bunch of UFO cultists who think her baby is going to save mankind from the aliens, *and* their opposite numbers, who think her baby is an alien sent to rule us all, or some damn thing. 

 

"Problem is, with rogue super soldiers in both cults, they've been playing Terminator tag with Mulder and Scully for the last two days. The only good news is: if the cultist's had tried to kidnap Scully a few weeks ago, Mulder would have been in Finland. As it was, he was able to play decoy and draw both cults away so Monica could smuggle Scully to wherever the hell Doggett sent them for safe-keeping."

 

"Wow! So, Scully's in hiding, the baby's due any day, she's got no professional help standing by, and vying factions of rogue super soldiers are pursuing her --Maggie must be frantic! I'm surprised you decided to hang out with me at the cabin instead of trying to hook up with Scully or Mulder, or, at least, hold Maggie's hand."

 

"Yeah, well, I might have stayed with Maggie to at least protect her, if her sons Charlie and Bill hadn't already moved her to the Navel Base in Norfolk, Virgina for safe keeping. I figured that if the cultists were watching *me,* they'd probably figure I'd go looking for Scully, which is one reason I decided to stay at the cabin: it's better protected than my condo, and there aren't any innocent by-standers within miles of the place. I figured I could play decoy as well as the next guy --and have a little fun into the bargain. I hope you don't mind."

 

"That we'll be sleeping with loaded weapons in case some Terminator types come calling? You *did* bring my back-up piece, right?" 

 

Walter nodded. "And more besides. I've got an arsenal in the cabin's basement a Survivalist would be proud to own."

 

"Then, naw. In my opinion, a fire fight with super soldiers beats the Hell outta ice fishing, any day."

 

Walter almost lost control of the SUV guffawing, but his slight swerve drew Alex's attention to the side window, and the view therefrom, which is how he noticed the Home Depot and, more particularly, their Christmas Tree lot. "There it is! Turn in!"

 

Walter dutifully pulled into the parking lot and eased up to the temporary fencing that demarcated the tree lot. 

 

Alex hopped out eagerly and started examining the remaining straggler trees. They were the only customers in the lot, and the first customers in hours, and the man who was working the lot practically hit them in the ass swinging the gate shut to lock the lot up as they departed, some precious minutes later, with their newly purchased --at a discount for the lateness of the hour and the slight deformity-- blue spruce, a reservoir type tree stand, two three dozen count boxes of plastic ball ornaments, a glass tree topper, and a couple strings of lights 'for next year.' 

 

Picking out the tree put Alex in a rare mood, and the rudeness of the clerk did nothing to dampen his good spirits as he hauled the tree onto the SUV's roof and strapped it down with the rope Walter always kept in his tool box. Walter decided that the cost of the tree, stand, and ornaments --even putting up with the surly clerk-- was worth the blissful look it had put on Alex's face.

 

Walter's cabin was thirty miles 'up the hill' from Hawkskill, which was fifteen miles south of Sperryville, so he headed back to Highway 211. He pulled over to the shoulder of the road when they reached the site of the accident, just to get a look around. 

 

"What were those damned aliens thinking, dropping you off in the middle of nowhere, like that?" Walter asked somewhat rhetorically.

 

"Better than dropping me off in some field in Montana," Alex shrugged. "At least this way I was close enough to call *you* for help. Otherwise, I'd have probably been stuck on the farm with Absolom's bunch for the holidays."

 

Walter agreed on that point, but he couldn't force himself to say so, since the aliens could have just as easily dropped Alex off on his doorstep in D.C. "Speaking of Absolom's bunch, Jeremiah Smith has contacted almost all of the Rebel returnees, and most of them wanted to regain their 

powers so they could help us fight the aliens --mainly due, *I* suspect, to 9/11, so we now have a hundred detector and protector pairs located worldwide, with more joining up every day. And, for some reason, they have decided to make Mulder their leader and spokesman in Absolom's absence-- which is only marginally better than their remaining loyal to Absolom, if you ask me. I don't know why, but the thought of Mulder commanding a secret army of telepaths makes me uneasy, for some reason.

 

"Mulder certainly seems to be enjoying the clout his new position's given him --oh, yeah: he was tossed out of the Bureau in October, so he finagled himself a position on Senator Matheson's staff, and, as of the end of November, has vetted all the members of the Executive Branch as well as several friendly nations' governing bodies for aliens and sympathizers."

 

Alex grunted. "I don't really care to hear about Mulder, at the moment," he confessed. "Not since I found out the reason the Rebels abducted me was because Mulder wanted them to run tests on *me.* Petty frickin' asshole just wanted to get me back for his own abduction. Not that I could convince *them* of that." He rubbed his head, thoughts of Mulder evoking memories of the pain he'd endured undergoing four months' worth of alien brain surgeries without anesthesia. "I don't want to talk about it or *him.*" He said tightly.

 

Walter frowned. "...You're going to have to work with him at some point."

 

"...Yeah, I know.... But not now. Not here. I don't want him to ruin our Christmas, OK?"

 

Walter rubbed Alex's thigh. "OK, babe."

 

They reached the cabin at nine pm and, once Walter fired up the generators and turned on the propane and water pump, he taught Alex the alarm codes. Then Alex put Walter to work setting up the tree in the living room, against the wall opposite and in the corner farthest away from the fire place, while he laid and lit a fire in said fireplace. 

 

Fire set, Alex, by force of habit, turned on the two LCD battery powered lanterns Walter kept on the mantle. He took one of the lanterns over to the tree and immediately began hanging the ornaments, which, although they were bulk packaged, bottom of the barrel plastic, came in six festively convincing metallic colors, while Walter brought in the luggage, which he took up to their bedroom, where he paused to light a fire in the upstairs fireplace, to warm the bedroom up for their eventual habitation. Then he came back downstairs to finish bringing in the food, which included the makings for both a traditional Christmas turkey, and New Year's ham dinner, and all the items Alex had requested. Finally, he returned to the living room with a couple of cold beers and some paper towels, as well as a three foot long bag of buttered pop corn, and the bag of cranberries. (He'd left the pizza on the end table by the living room's sofa.) 

 

Alex had started turning on the little key chain lanterns and hanging them on the tree's branches. He had such a hard time turning them on, Walter finally took pity on him and turned them on for him before handing them over to Alex to hang. Which was a good thing, since there were about three hundred mini lanterns in the box, just enough to adequately light the nine foot tree. 

 

When they finished, they sat on the sofa, which actually faced the fireplace, and looked over the sofa back at the softly shining tree.

 

Alex smiled. "It's beautiful. Even without the popcorn and cranberry garlands. I knew it would be."

 

"It *is* nice," Walter admitted before shoving the pizza into the fireplace oven. Once the cheese started bubbling, he drew it out with a peel they kept in the rack along with the other fireplace tools, and laid it back in the box, which was sitting on the end table on Alex's side of the couch. 

 

They divvied up the pie --and the box, one taking the bottom, the other the lid to use as plates, and, with paper towel napkins and long necked beers to hand, they ate in the living room, so Alex could admire his tree. (Alex had finished off the cocoa on the way there.) 

 

"It was a nice idea, key chain lights for the tree," Walter confided as he polished off the last of his pizza.

 

Alex laughed. "It's a good thing you installed the electricity, though. I don't think those lights will last long, and turning three hundred of them on and off each night would be a royal pain. Too bad I can't get a picture."

 

Walter grunted, left the couch to go in search of, and returned with camera in tow. "Voila. Your wish is my command." He promptly started to take shots of the tree, from all angles, as if he were a fashion photographer snapping the latest super model. 

 

Alex laughed at that, and insisted Walter allow him to take a few shots of Walter beside the tree, as well as standing in front of the tree, where the little lights shone like stars all around him. Alex noticed that Walter didn't reciprocate and take pictures of *him* beneath the tree. //Not that we'd want any reminders,// he thought as he stroked the scars on his face. There were matching scars on his ankles and wrists. Not to mention the scars on his psyche. 

 

Walter noticed Alex's sudden pensive turn, and cuddled up with him on the couch. "What's wrong, Val?"

 

"I feel like Rip Van Winkle! I mean, I thought I was out of touch when I was in that Tunisian prison, but, shit! The whole world changed while I was up there!"

 

Walter nodded. "I felt the same way when I got back from 'Nam. I hadn't even been gone a year, but it was as if *I* was an alien from another planet in that damned VA hospital. When I left the States it was all hippies and tie dye, but when I got back into the World was gold lame` and disco.... which reminds me...I, uh, took the liberty of moving your stuff from the storage locker over here. All except your emergency stash, and a couple boxes of decoy kitchen stuff, plus the ones with the contact info tin, message pad, and agent list. I hope you don't mind. It's just that...well, I *did* miss you, so very much, and I needed to feel like we were really going to live the dream. It was kind of dark outside when we came in, but, did you notice the white picket fence?"

 

Alex grinned. "...Yeah. It's cute, with all those scalloped edges. Just the thing to frame a border of flowers."

 

Walter beamed, glad that Alex approved. "Yeah, well, I just ran it around the front yard. Trying to run a picket fence around the amount of acreage we have up here would be impractical. But, uh, back to your stuff. I figured I'd move it here, where you could enjoy it, and know you had a place to come to, when you needed, that was really yours. It's *your* furniture in the den, now, and your pictures hanging on the wall." His watch chimed, and he glanced at it before shutting it off. "It's midnight," Walter said. "Merry Christmas, Val." He leaned in for a kiss.

 

"Merry Christmas, Vlad," Alex said, happily gifting his lover with his lips. 

 

"Hmm.... which brings me to that promise you made...to thank me, ever so nicely, for allowing you to waste our money on a store bought tree. I found some clothes among those boxes of stuff, and I'd like you to wear them for me. In fact, I'd like you to wear them while you dance with me."

 

Alex blanched. "Not the leisure suit!"

 

Walter smirked. "Yes, the leisure suit. I, uh, took the liberty of setting out the outfit I'd like you to wear for me. It's in the bedroom. Go on up and change. I'll meet you in the den."

 

Alex pouted. "I was a skinny kid, Walter. I doubt those clothes will fit me, any more."

 

"They're polyester, Alex. They'll stretch. Please?"

 

Alex sighed. He *had* promised, but the leisure suit reminded him of his hustling days. Days he'd rather forget. //That's what you get for making carte blanche promises,// he thought dourly. He didn't know why Walter wanted him to relive those days.... Maybe it was one of those fantasy things. Lots of men were titillated by the idea of picking up a rent boy for the night. "OK."

 

Walter smiled like a kid in a candy shop with a month's allowance in hand, and, suddenly, Alex felt a lot better. How could he deny this man, his rock, anything? He kissed Walter again. "Anything for you, Bear."

 

Alex went upstairs to the master bedroom. Alex's 'outfit' was laid out on his side of the bed. Alex winced, still horrified that he'd actually worn that stuff. He dutifully peeled off his clothes and donned the red silk shirt and white polyester suit coat. Neither fit well enough for him to feel comfortable, but the shirt, being unstretchable silk, was worse than the suit coat --for he *wasn't* a skinny eighteen-year-old, anymore. Thank God he hadn't gone in for the 'tapered' European tailoring. If he left the shirt unbuttoned, and the coat mostly so, they fit well enough for Walter's fantasy date, though, and gave him room to maneuver, which he'd need to do if Walter was serious about the dancing part of the fantasy. 

 

As for the pants, he lay down on the bed, inhaled, and prayed as he fought the zipper up, but the woven polyester *did* have enough give in it for him to snap the top button. It probably helped that they were hip huggers, and rode low, beneath his belly. He noticed that Walter hadn't set out his platform heels, so he put his Doc Marten's back on. The flared pant legs were slightly too long for the low-heeled boots, but as long as he was careful he shouldn't trip, so he pretended not to notice. 

 

He supposed Walter had set out the red shirt because it was seasonal. There was a tie for the outfit, as well, but since he wasn't able to button the shirt, Alex tossed it aside. Then he went into the en suite bathroom to gel back his hair to give the impression of a mullet, shaved, splashed on some cologne, and went back to his dresser to riffle his jewelry box for a few gold pendants, some cuff links, and a chain bracelet. Finally ready, he descended to the living room, and crossed over to the doorway leading to the step-down den. He could hear Donna Summer crooning from inside. He opened the door at the top of the landing --and stopped dead. 

 

Walter had also changed. He was wearing what had to be a vintage chocolate brown leisure suit with a Christmas green shirt and red tie. He was *not* wearing hip huggers, and the extra length of the pants made his long legs seem that much longer. He was also not wearing platform heels. Alex nodded. Of course, since they were nearly the same height, Walter had not wanted Alex to loom over him. He was pretty sure platform heels would have been the last thing a sensible and staid ex-Marine like Walter Skinner would have bought, no matter *what* the latest fad was. He was, in fact, wearing a good pair of ballroom dancing shoes. And he was doing his best John Travolta, Saturday Night Fever impression.

 

That wasn't the only shocking thing, though, for he had magically transformed the room into a disco palace, complete with strobing colored footlights and a rotating mirror ball where the antler chandelier had formerly hung. He had pushed the furniture to the edges of the room and rolled back the rug, so they had most of the hardwood floor to dance on, a good ten by fifteen feet, Alex estimated. There were four speakers, cranked up to at least five -- Walter was fond of his hearing, and wanted to preserve as much of what he retained through the war for his *real* old age, so he never cranked the volume above seven, even in a wide open venue, like the patio deck. 

 

K.C and the Sunshine Band began to sing The Hustle, and Walter pretended he was in a line dance, going through the motions with a dance floor full of other patrons. He noticed Alex, but made no indication that he knew the newcomer, he just kept dancing.

 

Alex frowned. He knew Walter knew about his background, but Walter had his own disco ghosts. He wasn't sure what Walter wanted to do: lay a few ghosts? Enjoy a fantasy pick-up? Take a trip down nostalgia lane? He sighed. He would have to play it by ear. He stepped down into the sunken den and took his place beside Walter. After a few awkward moments, the moves began to come back to him, and, pretty soon, he was 'hustling' like the pro he had been. 

 

K.C. gave way to Evelyn 'Champagne' King, and Walter started the disco version of Dueling Banjos. He faced Alex and made what would have been a crowd pleasing 'specialty' move, then struck a pose and stared at Alex, who, grinning, made an answering move. Walter strutted out a slightly more complicated move, and Alex followed suit. After five more rounds, it was clear that Alex was going to win the competition. Walter gave up five moves later, and Alex enjoyed his victory with a triumphant solo dance. Walter was gracious in defeat. "Great moves. Lemme buy you a drink, we'll sit the next few songs out and cool down."

 

"Sure." 

 

Walter led Alex to a small end-table, where he'd set out a few beers and a couple kitchen chairs. "You looked really good out there. You must get a lot of practice."

 

"Enough."

 

"You ever give lessons?"

 

Alex smiled. "Sure. All the time. What kind you interested in?"

 

"You know the Lambata?"

 

Alex's heart fluttered. "Yeah. You want I should teach you?"

 

"Yeah. I'd like that a lot."

 

And, as if cued, The Lambata came on. "Let's go." 

 

Alex put his drink down, took Walter's hand, and led him back onto the dance floor. He showed Walter the basic moves, then made a practice run. For some, not so coincidental reason, the song repeated a few times, enough so that Alex and Walter could work out the moves and begin to dance in earnest.

 

Alex danced the woman's part, happily wrapping his legs around Walter's. Their groins ground together as they snaked sinuously across the dance floor, twining their arms, twisting and dipping through the dance called 'the closest thing to the sex act on the dance floor.' 

 

Then Marvin Gaye started singing about Sexual Healing, and Alex started stripping. Walter wasn't far behind. They fell onto the couch in a tangle of arms and legs. Alex started licking the sweat off Walter's chest, then nibbled his nipples. Walter roared with enthusiasm and kicked off the last of his clothes. He reached over to the drawer of the end-table and pulled out the lube and condoms. He slicked up and plunged into Alex's hot tunnel. 

 

"Oh, God! Missed you so much!"

 

"Oh, yes! Harder! Make me yours!"

 

"Uht-oh! Whoa!" Walter lost his balance on the sweat-slicked couch and fell to the floor, taking Alex with him. "Yah!"

 

"You all right, Bear?" Alex asked.

 

"Hmm....fine! Since you're up there, why don't you show me some of that superior technique?" 

 

Alex grinned and started riding his lover. Walter groaned with appreciation and reached out to give his lover some extra incentive. "Oh, yeah! Oh, yeah! Keep your motor running! Push it! Push it hard!

 

Alex began to buck frantically. "So close!"

 

"Come for me, baby! Bring me on home! Oh, yeah! Like that! Like --gah!" Walter shot his wad as Alex's dick started spraying and jerking. 

 

"Oh, shit!" Alex collapsed over Walter's chest. "Oh, man!" He snagged a kiss. "So good."

 

"That had to be the best Christmas present, ever," Walter smiled.

 

Alex smiled. "I wish it could always be like this."

 

Walter kissed Alex, plundered his mouth, rolled him over and crushed him to his chest, but he knew better than to make a promise he didn't know he could keep. Neither of them could promise to be here tomorrow, because either of them could be snatched up as easily as Alex had been last September. Snatched. Killed. Imprisoned. No, theirs was not a safe life. Not a life for promises. The only thing he could promise was to care. "We may not live forever. We may not even live long enough to see the end of this secret war, but no alien, no super soldier, no secret government conspiracy will ever come between us. I swear. I'm yours forever and always, Val." 

 

"Forever and always, Vlad."

 

They kissed again, more tenderly, as if sealing their vows. 

 

Then Walter's cell phone began to ring. 

 

Walter groaned, reached out and grabbed the first piece of clothing that came to hand, which he used to wipe them off, then he got up and pulled Alex back into the warm living room., where he had left his phone.

 

"Yeah, Skinner, here."

 

"Sorry, sir, did I wake you?" Scully asked.

 

"Scully! How are you?"

 

"I'm fine. And so is William Mulder-Scully."

 

"You had the baby?"

 

"Yeah. Monica mid-wived. And, as per usual, Mulder showed up just as the excitement was all over."

 

"Regular birthing baby excitement?" Walter hoped.

 

"Unfortunately, no, but don't ask me what happened, 'cause I'm not sure --and I was there!" Scully laughed. "Those super soldiers --and cultists! Damn, Walter! They were everywhere! Duking it out in the streets! I think most of them took each other out. The ones who were left came inside, took a look at the baby, and just walked away! Monica and I couldn't believe our eyes. I guess William wasn't what *they* expected, but, Walter, he's the most beautiful thing in the world! And all ten fingers and toes. Just perfect! I'm exhausted, but so happy! I just had to call and let you know I had a Christmas child."

 

"I'm glad you did, and I have some good news of my own: Alex is back. He seems to be OK. He was checked out by a doctor. He's got a set of scars like the Bellefleur abductees, but other than that, he's fine."

 

Scully apparently passed this news on to Mulder, because the next thing Walter knew, Mulder was on the phone. "So, did the tests work?"

 

"I don't know." Walter looked at Alex, who looked positively debauched splayed out on the couch with the Navajo blanket crumpled on top of him like an extra-long loin cloth, bare flesh hanging out on all sides. Walter hit the 'mute' button. "It's Scully and Mulder. She had her baby. A boy. William Mulder-Scully. Mulder wants to know if the tests took."

 

"No," Alex said firmly.

 

"Alex says 'no,'" Walter passed along.

 

"Hm. Oh, well. It was worth a try."

 

"Worth a try to do what, exactly?" Walter asked.

 

"To see if they could force a normal human brain to become sensitive, like mine, and turn on the detector ability. It would have been nice if *everybody* was able to detect aliens."

 

Walter sighed. On the face of it, it seemed a reasonable justification for experimentation, but Walter knew there was a genetic basis to those abilities, and mere wishful thinking wasn't going to magically alter someone's genes. He was pretty sure Mulder understood the basics of genetics, and, even if he hadn't, Scully did. Had Mulder broached his idea to Scully *before* inciting the aliens to experimentation, Scully would have had about ten reasons why they shouldn't even have contemplated the project. Walter sighed. Not that that would have counted for much in Mulder's book. Not in the face of alien technology. That was the damnable thing about Mulder and his ideas. He could couch the most outlandish things in the most reasonable light. Especially in his own mind. Walter had no doubt that, if Alex confronted Mulder, Mulder would make it seem like sour grapes.

 

"So, what now?" Walter asked.

 

"Now, I think Scully and I will take the helicopter and fly out to Norfolk, Virgina to show the baby off to her family," Mulder said. "Monica is going to drive back to D.C. and fill John in."

 

"OK. Tell Scully congratulations from me, and to take it easy. Alex and I are going to stay at my cabin for the holidays, so I don't expect to see any of you till January. Merry Christmas, and Happy New Year."

 

"Yeah, same to you, Walter."

 

Walter shut off the phone. "Well, I guess we won't have to be on the look-out for Terminator types, after all."

 

"Hmm....good. We can sleep in," Alex said drowsily.

 

Walter smiled, grabbed the eight foot long sofa and turned it around, so Alex wouldn't have to sit up to see the tree, then he went back into the den, shut everything off, grabbed their beers, and seated himself on the opposite end of the couch, inviting Alex to move up and cuddle with him, which he did. Walter spread the Navajo blanket over them, and they finished their beers in each other's arms.

 

"Penny for your thoughts," Walter said softly.

 

"Hmm..., I was just thinking back to the last tree I had. It was the year before Irene graduated High school. It was just the three of us: Irene, Jack, and me, and I was missing Kevin something awful. He always had some huge Czech feast for the holidays...with something like seven fish courses."

 

"Ah. Hence the craving for fish tacos," Walter said sagaciously.

 

Alex smiled. "Yeah. What about you? You miss Christmases with Sharon?"

 

"Eh. Not so much. Back when we were first married, we'd spend the holidays at her folks', then, when we moved to Austin, my folks'. But what she really loved is when we lived in New York City: the stores, Radio City Music Hall, ice skating at Rockefeller Plaza, and all the lights, and the lighting of the tree. 

 

"Washington, D.C. is a ghost town at Christmas, what with Congress on recess and half the buildings closed for the duration-- especially compared to New York City. I really think that was when the final stages of discontent set in. It was like, I had reached the pinnacle of my career, and

doomed my marriage in one fell swoop."

 

"Hmm.... Why disco?"

 

Walter snorted. "Timing. I wooed Sharon on the dance floor and, back then, disco was all the rage. Every step I made, every move I mastered, made me feel like a King. Because of my wounds, you know? It took two long years of rehab, but I finally won the prize, despite it all. I might have been only half a man, but I was King Half Man! I guess, I just wanted to feel like a King again, only with you, because, truth to tell, sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I wonder what you see in old, decrepit me. You're still young. You could find somebody new. Younger. Better looking. More flexible. With better staying power."

 

"Hey! *You* could find somebody new, too, you know? A boy scout with squeaky clean morals and an unstained soul. Someone you wouldn't be ashamed to show off at one of those high falutin' D.C. social functions." 

 

"I am *not* ashamed of you, Alex. I am *proud* to be your lover. Proud that you chose *me* as your ally and confidante."

 

"Yeah? Well, for *your* information, Mister, 'Old and Decrepit,' *I* am not looking for an acrobat. I trust you more than anybody else on Earth, Walter. You and only you. I know you have my back. You're my moral compass, my shelter from the shit storm. You make me feel safe. 

Wherever you are, that's home to me. Damnit, old man, don't you know you're my knight in shining armor!?"

 

Walter smiled and kissed the top of Alex's head. "OK, Kate." 

 

Their lives were not their own. They were playing a dangerous game with dangerous men and even more dangerous aliens and they both knew they could die tomorrow. But they also knew they were committed to each other. 

 

Walter had pursued Alex, unsure if Alex would ever want him in return, but now he knew that Alex did want him, and it meant the world to him. Walter vowed silently that however the winds of fate blew, he would make *this* relationship work. "You want to go upstairs to bed?"

 

"No. Wanna stay here and watch the tree and fall asleep in your arms."

 

"OK." Walter let Alex turn carefully around so they were both facing the tree, then he tucked the blanket to Alex's chin, ducking his arm under the covers to cradle Alex in his arms. 

 

Alex snuggled himself into Walter's embrace and tilted his head so he could see both the tree, and Walter's face. "You know what, Bear? You're about nine hundred of my thousand points of light."

 

"Hmm...that's nice, mon petite Bush noel. Now, go to sleep, or Santa will put coal in your stocking," Walter punned drowsily.

 

Alex smiled, and did just that. 

 

###


End file.
